


Chosen Man

by Sineala



Series: Chosen Man [1]
Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Military, Canon Era, First Time, Loyalty, M/M, Romance, Shame, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:38:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 116,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The son of the man who lost the Eagle of the Ninth would never be allowed a first command of his very own fort, would he? </p>
<p>Marcus is posted not to Isca Dumnoniorum, but to a wretched and run-down garrison north of the Wall. There he finds that he is the new centurion of a group of scouts and spies, all of them British. He has few supplies and no experience. His men distrust him. His superiors despise him. His second-in-command is an incompetent drunkard. And the local tribes are determined to kill all of them. </p>
<p>But the worst thing of all is one of Marcus' soldiers. He is an enigmatic, dangerous, and insubordinate man by the name of Esca, who makes Marcus yearn for terrifying things he has never before wanted and can never, ever let himself have...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's a canon-era AU where Marcus and Esca are both in the Roman army. 
> 
> Check out the amazing artwork by Motetus [here](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/16917/16917_original.jpg). (It depicts a scene about halfway through Chapter 4, but it is not particularly spoilery; it's Marcus and Esca in armor.)
> 
> For those of you who prefer details with your warnings, you should know that I have chosen to tag this story as Graphic Violence for three reasons: one, violence in war, approximately equivalent to canon explicitness; two, death of minor original characters; three, corporal punishment (one scene of military discipline in which Marcus beats Esca). Primarily it is the last of these that would cause the story to merit the warning. If you have any questions about story elements, I am happy to answer them.
> 
> For complete notes, including bibliography, you may want to look at the story announcement at [LiveJournal](http://sineala.livejournal.com/1789794.html) or [Dreamwidth](http://sineala.dreamwidth.org/1325208.html).

Whatever Marcus expected when he asked for a post in Britannia, he thinks to himself as he looks around the camp in mounting horror, it wasn't this. 

It is not precisely a true statement; he ought to have expected this. He knows of course that centurions command various kinds of centuries within cohorts, and from his blurry memories of his father riding off to war he thought that he might be put in command of an infantry unit, as was his father. Or perhaps—he allowed himself to imagine this scenario, luxuriously, a few times—he would command an entire permanent fortification, a small one, doing his part to repel the advances of the Britons. Such duties could be suitable for a newly-promoted centurion, could they not?

But a man whose father was a centurion in the ill-fated Legio VIIII Hispana, a man whose father lost the Eagle—that man should not dream of being so lucky. Marcus should have realized this. He knew when he found that his posting was to be north of the Aelian Wall that he was to suffer for it, in the very land in which the legion itself was lost. This is a small camp, not even properly built up yet, barely north of the wall, housing what seem to be the rejects of the army. It is in stark contrast to the elegant stonework of the fort at Trimontium, just to the west, with their well-trained cavalry. His rank, the orders informed him, was hastatus posterior, the most junior of the six centurions in a cohort, the tenth cohort (oh, the lowest of the low) at that, and as for his century, well...

"I'm afraid we're all a bit of a joke here," the hastatus prior tells him as they walk through the camp, in the kind of confidential tone that suggests he already thinks of Marcus as a friend even though they have known each other barely two hours. He's Aulus Herennius Eonus, one of the other centurions. As the fifth centurion of the cohort, he ranks higher than Marcus, but he greeted him with an exceedingly joyous welcome when Marcus rode in earlier this morning; it makes Marcus wonder how awful his predecessor must have been. "No offense meant, but your century is especially so."

Marcus tries to nod firmly, to appear as though this doesn't bother him. It's a look he likes to think he's mastered, over the years.

Marcus' new command, a century of eighty men, is listed on the papyrus of his orders as part of this cohors tumultuaria, an auxiliary cohort of irregulars. Spies and scouts against the British tribes, his orders said, but Marcus can believe all too easily that "irregular" applies to the entire damned disorganized century. 

He knows perfectly well what the camp ought to look like. As this is only a summer-camp, he expects tents rather than barracks. His century ought to have ten tents, eight men to a tent, arranged in a double row and facing each other. The soldiers' gear and weaponry, of course, should be neatly stacked, leaving room for a walkway. As centurion, Marcus' double-sized tent should be at the end of the row, to serve both as his own space and his century's common area. This is what regulations stipulate. Everything orderly, everything in its proper place.

What Marcus actually sees is near-absolute chaos. If they have four tents, that is a generous estimate, and those four are so worn and patched again and again that he doubts they would ever keep any of the British rain out. Gear is strewn everywhere across this section of the camp, out in the open, hardly in any order whatsoever. Men sit with their backs against piles of belongings, and others laze in the dirt; few appear to be doing any kind of useful work at all, and only five or ten of them are in any sort of proper uniform. Most wear only civilian tunics. His own tent—or what he concludes must be his own tent—is half-collapsed at the back of the area, only one side up. Within the shadows he can see the outlines of a few men seated there, and from the way they lean in close he suspects they are dicing.

He is aware of Eonus' eyes on him, watching him very closely for a reaction, and so he swallows and forces a smile. A faint one is all he can manage. "Well," Marcus says, while inside he is beginning to crumble, "it could be worse."

This is what Rome thinks of him. This is what Rome thinks of his father. And they have rubbed his face in it.

Eonus laughs to hear it; Marcus knows then that this was the right thing to say, that he was right to hide the shame. "You seem like a clever one, Aquila. You may even be able to make something of this bunch."

Marcus squints at the men in the shambles of the camp, trying to take the measure of them, to see if even one of them might be a worthy soldier. He cannot tell. At any rate, he could hardly do worse by them than their last commander, whoever that was. He tilts his head in acknowledgment of Eonus.

"Tell me something, Eonus," he wonders aloud, turning to address the other man. "You wouldn't happen to know where the optio of this century is, would you? I have a mind to ask him about the conditions here." For he cannot very well blurt out every appalled thought in his head to his own superior: Where are the tents? Why are these men not in uniform, and why are they not on duty? What has gone wrong here?

He is surprised to see a reticent, hesitating expressing pass over the man's face; the tour of the camp this morning has become progressively more disgraceful the closer they go to the walls, but never once has Eonus flinched. And now, only now, does the man balk.

"You want to see Quintus Seius' optio?" Eonus asks, almost in disbelief, and then hastens on as if to assure him. "You know, he needn't be your optio, yes? You can always have him transferred, or demoted if you find it necessary. You can pick whoever you like as your second-in-command. It is your century now. Just because Laetinianus was Viridio's optio doesn't mean he has to be yours—"

Marcus is beginning to wonder what in the world can be wrong with the man such that Eonus thinks he should not even see him. "Is there a reason I should not address my concerns to him? I know I am free to choose my own man, but I would fain begin by hearing from the optio himself about the state of the century that this Viridio has left to me." Belatedly, the thought drifts through his mind that perhaps he should be curious as to why Quintus Seius Viridio is no longer here. Or perhaps he should not.

"There is no reason as such," Eonus says, too quickly again, too quickly by half. "It is only that I do not know where Laetinianus is at present."

Marcus manages with great difficulty not to sigh. "Do you know if any among these men would know?"

He watches as Eonus' gaze takes in the entire disgrace that is his century, and finally settles on one. "That man," he says confidently, pointing with a jerk of his head to a faraway figure, too far to see properly, sitting alone in the sunlight, bent over some task in his lap. "His name escapes me now, but I know that he knows the whole of your century. It seemed to me, the times I met him, that he knew the men better than either Viridio or Laetinianus did."

"I thank you," Marcus says, gratefully seizing upon this one scrap of information. "I am sure he will aid me."

Eonus gives him a strange look, almost as if he thinks the man will not. "Well, then, Aquila, if you have no other questions at this time, I ought to return to my century."

"I'll be fine," Marcus tells him, because that is what one says, even though he is not quite sure if it will be true. 

"I'll see you at the daybreak assembly tomorrow, eh?" Eonus says as he leaves. It is a redundant question, because of course Marcus will be up at the trumpet-call to receive the day's orders. He would not dream of disgracing himself more with laziness.

Marcus nods and turns to face his new command. His very own personal nightmare. He'd best talk to this other man and then the optio, and then perhaps he can begin to salvage the situation.

As he approaches the man Eonus indicated, Marcus sees that he is sharpening a dagger in his lap, a careful, rhythmic slide of metal against whetstone. At least he is performing a useful task, Marcus thinks, even though he is clearly out of uniform, not even armed. The man wears braccae as the natives do and a plain, undyed tunic, ordinary and Roman in its sleevelessness. He notes, oddly, the bold line of a tattoo, as some of the continental tribesmen bear, curling around the man's pale upper arm. He has pale hair too, or at least paler than most native Romans. Surely he is a Gaul, then; Marcus knows from walking through the camp that many of the men here, in the other cohorts they are camped with, are Gaulish in origin—huge blond giants, the lot of them. But this one is a much slighter man than they. Marcus supposes that it is sensible to have smaller men among the scouts, to be light and fleet of foot.

And the man still does not look up at him, does not seem to be aware of his presence. He can fix that soon enough.

"You! Soldier!" Marcus snaps out, with the voice one uses to call the raw recruits to attention, and the other man finally looks up.

Marcus almost wishes he hadn't spoken, for now he can at last see the man's face, and Marcus... is struck speechless. It is as the poet says: no voice remains in his mouth, his tongue is numb, fire flows down through his limbs, and all the rest of it. The Gaulish man is— Marcus doesn't know if "beautiful" is the word one would use to describe him, for this man is nothing like the soft, perfumed, long-haired boys that usually merit the phrase. He is thin, all wiry strength and a face of odd planes and angles, with strange eyes, brilliantly blue. And Marcus cannot stop staring. He would look at him forever if he could. 

By the time he knows he has been staring too long, it is already too late. He is transfixed, and he curses himself for it. Marcus is already now serving in what must surely be the worst cohort in the empire; he cannot, he will not be one of those lecherous commanders with eyes always and only for their subordinates. He will not let himself become effeminate, consumed by constant passions. He cannot. He must ignore this.

The man blinks at him and abruptly Marcus realizes he still has not acknowledged him. His stunned astonishment starts to transmute into annoyance. The man has to see that Marcus is a centurion. No one is that stupid. Why has he not stood or saluted?

"I am Marcus Flavius Aquila," he tells him, as sternly as he can possibly manage. "The new commander of your century," he adds, in case this fact is not obvious.

The man blinks again.

Marcus takes a deep breath. "Are you going to salute me or not?" The words hiss out from between teeth he is trying not to clench.

At this the man sets his dagger and whetstone aside, locks eyes with Marcus—Marcus tells himself, very firmly, that he does not feel the fire as before—and gives him the most lackadaisical salute that Marcus has seen in his life, fist bouncing lazily off his chest. He doesn't even stand up. By Hercules! And Eonus implied that this was the best man in the century. Perhaps he, too, only thought the man handsome. This is going to be the worst posting of Marcus' life.

"Your name, soldier?" Marcus demands of the Gaul. He has had enough of this. Let him have the man's name, no matter how pretty he is, and he will be up for discipline once Marcus has told the optio about it. That is, if he will even decide to leave disciplinary matters to the optio. Perhaps he will address this matter himself. He is perfectly capable of beating him; it is, after all, why centurions carry vine-staves.

The man smiles, then, and as he does his face transforms into something even more beautiful.

"I am called Esca." His accent is unmistakably, purely British. Not Gaulish. Only British.

Marcus is rendered silent by this man for the second time. He is British and serving here? In Britannia? This cannot be. Everyone knows that auxiliaries recruited in a given province are always sent to serve elsewhere, to lessen the risk of sympathies and rebellions. That is why so many of the other men here are Gauls; they are distant kin to the Britons, yes, but they bear neither love for nor loyalties toward any of the British tribes. 

He waits for this man, Esca, to laugh and tell him in a proper Latin accent that it was a joke, to tell him that truly, no, his name is Gaius Valerius, perhaps, or some other good Roman name. Anything. Anything other than this, for this makes no sense. 

Esca says nothing else.

He stares stupidly down at Esca when no other explanation is forthcoming, only able to summon up words to describe the patently obvious. "You're British."

Esca tilts his head up at him, wide-eyed and guileless. "Didn't they tell you anything about your command? We're all Britons in this century."

Marcus gapes. "All of you?" This is... impossible. It's a wonder they haven't all revolted.

Esca merely shrugs. "About half of us are from the tribes. The rest are half-Roman, born to British mothers, but close enough to native as makes no difference."

"But— but why?" He can't wrap his mind around it. None of them should be here.

Esca looks at him with lips firmed as though he is trying especially hard to repress the urge to correct his ignorance. "We are spies and scouts, yes? To act as scouts we have to know the territory; to act as spies we have to know the language and customs well enough that we might pass for locals. The easiest way to do that is to have grown up here speaking the language."

"Oh."

It is a dangerous risk Rome is taking, filling a unit with locals—and judging by the upkeep of the place, it is a risk the empire seems to have forgotten it ever took.

"Indeed." And Esca smiles as if he knows exactly how dangerous he is.

"I am told you know the men here well," Marcus tries again. It is a reasonable question for a commander to ask of his subordinate. It is certainly not that he is trying to become more familiar with him.

Esca nods. "I know many of them very well. I have the honor to be decanus of my tent."

Decanus. Marcus tries not to groan. Of course he would be. This means, of course, that Marcus will have to deal with him more than he would with any ordinary soldier, as decani are the leaders of the eight-man squads that are the very smallest unit of the army.

He tears his eyes away from Esca's face, briefly, to look out at the wreck of a camp. "And do you have an actual tent, _decane_ , or is that title only for the convenience of logistics?"

Esca has the grace to look a little embarrassed, but from the way he does it it is as if he is putting on the act of emotion because it is a manner that someone told him Romans would use toward Romans. False, all of it, like an actor and his mask.

"We have had some... supply problems, you might call them, in this century," Esca says, very quietly.

Marcus may as well agree with the obvious. "I see that."

"But," Esca adds, and his voice brightens now, truly brightens, with real pride, "I can show you my men. There and there—" he points to two of the men dicing— "are Sintorix and Paetinus, and over there are Gavo and Ancus and Carantos."

The names are a mix of British and Roman, which is odd, but it goes with what Esca has told him about the century's composition. Marcus frowns and counts on his fingers. "Including you, that only makes six." 

Are they that under-strength? The look on his face must be stricken indeed, because Esca corrects himself quickly, as if to reassure him. "No, we have our full eight. The other two are at the infirmary. Vatto has an injured arm, mending well, and Galerus suffers from quartan fever, though they say he is better than he was. This morning I called on the surgeons myself to ask after them."

So here is one man who cares about the men, at least, even if he has not treated Marcus with anything near the degree of deference due a centurion.

"Good." Marcus nods briskly. Enough of this talking just to hear the man talk; he ought to ask him what he came to ask. "I was told you might know the whereabouts of the optio."

He watches as Esca's face turns incredulous, and then, inexplicably, the man bursts into laughter. "Laetinianus? You—" he is still chuckling— "you don't want to see him. Not right now. Maybe tomorrow morning."

Marcus bites back the instinctive dressing-down: _don't tell me what I want, soldier_. Somehow he knows already it will do no good with this one. Esca will tell him what he wants only in the manner that Esca wants to tell it; he already has the measure of the man. Punishment would not cure him; it would only delay Marcus learning anything.

He forces himself to breathe. "Humor me, soldier. Suppose I wanted to see him now. Do you have any idea where he is?"

"Off drinking," Esca says, shortly. "As he does every day. It's early yet, so he might still be able to walk, but I would not lay money on it." His voice is empty of emotion now.

Marcus cannot think of a thing to say. The optio, a drunkard? He should be on duty. He should be leading the men in exercises. He should— Marcus doesn't even know what to think.

"It's not even the seventh hour," he concludes, looking up at the sky, while inside he is growing more and more wretched. How can the Fates have picked this life for him? What has he done?

Esca shrugs. "Our optio, he starts this duty at dawn. If you still want him, I can fetch him for you, but I can't promise he'll be very helpful. Or sober."

"Do that," Marcus says, curtly. "Now, if you please," he adds, when Esca does not immediately move.

He watches as Esca stands up, unfolding lanky limbs, and he is surprised at the man's height—nearly a full head shorter than Marcus himself. Esca still does not salute.

"And after I have seen the optio in my tent, I would like to see you there," he adds. Maybe even this man can become a proper soldier. Perhaps Marcus can talk obedience into him. "In uniform, _decane_." He puts the bite of a command into his voice. He hopes the century even has uniforms.

Esca's face hardens then, as if he hates to be commanded, but this order he acknowledges. "I obey. Sir." Esca finally gives him a real salute, and then he turns and lopes off down one of the camp roads.

Esca runs with an elegant, economical grace, holding his limbs just so, every movement perfectly controlled, even at speed. His chest rises and falls as he breathes in rhythm, like a messenger who could keep a pace for miles, like Pheidippides at Marathon. At the same time there is the suggestion of more power there, a man who could scramble through the wilds if he had to. He is beautiful, and he is everything Marcus cannot have.

Marcus reminds himself that the man is insolent and bordering on insubordinate until the heavy, tingling weight in his chest lifts. Then he turns toward his century, to meet more of the men and see what can be done at least with his lurching, unstable tent. He will not receive his new optio only to have his tent collapse on them. It would be ill-omened. On the other hand, it could hardly be much worse than it is.

* * *

He discovers, shortly thereafter, that Sintorix and Paetinus in the tent are happy enough to welcome him to the century—and to instantly cease their dice game at his disapproving glare, which already endears them more to him than did their decanus—but that the tent is beyond help without additional equipment. One of the support poles has snapped, accounting for the tent's lopsided nature. Marcus only hopes the rest of the tent does not pick this moment to fall.

It is just after he discovers this fact that the optio comes laboring across the camp, dressed more or less in uniform, and Marcus adds to his tent-related hopes the additional, fervent hope that the optio himself does not fall. For this Laetinianus is leaning heavily on the tall staff that is the mark of an optio, clutching it as though it is the only thing keeping him upright. Perhaps it is. He bears neither weapons nor helm, but he has at least not neglected his armor: the scales of the lorica squamata gleam in the dim sunlight. And he is older than Marcus had thought he would be, forty at least, by Marcus' reckoning—and a man who is still an optio at forty cannot be a very good one.

"Sir," the man says, in a halting, wavering voice, thick with drink, when he has reached the edge of the tent. "Titus Amatius Laetinianus. I was told you sent for me." He grips his staff, taller than he is, even tighter with one hand as he frees the other hand to make an admirable, if uncoordinated, attempt at a salute.

Unlike so many of the others in the century, this man has a proper Roman name, and a Roman cast to his features, dark-haired and olive-skinned like so many of Marcus' countrymen in Etruria. His Latin is flawless, with only the accent of Rome herself. He is the only man Marcus has seen so far in this century who looks like a native Roman, and with a sinking, awful feeling, he knows why the man must be holding this post. Romans promote Romans, after all, and even more so in a unit full of provincials. No wonder Eonus called them a joke; this sort of move would fracture any loyalty the century might feel to their commander.

"I did," says Marcus, stepping closer and then recoiling; the man stinks of wine. "I am Marcus Flavius Aquila, the new centurion."

"Welcome to hell." Laetinianus laughs, then, harshly. "And what did you do to end up here?"

Marcus contemplates the ugly pattern of broken veins across the man's face, reddened by the drink, before he answers. "What makes you think I did anything?" he says, as carefully as he can.

Another hoarse, raucous laugh, as the man wobbles and clutches his staff again. "This is Tartarus, boy. You're here because you've offended the gods. Or the army."

 _Or both_. The thought comes to Marcus, unbidden.

"You're leading half-trained barbarians who will be happy to stab you as easily as they'd stab the enemy. Maybe easier. They won't trust you, and they'll hate you until they die, or you do. Which might be soon. We get the worst of the provisions and the most suicidal of the assignments."

"Is there nothing to be done?" He will not give up on his first command before it has begun, even if it is as hellish as all that. "Is there no way to win the loyalty of the men?"

Laetinianus snorts. "If you survive these furciferes, you can take a transfer." He casts a glance at Marcus that is almost greedy. "They'd let you bring your optio out with you, if you left."

Marcus has the feeling the man expects camaraderie from him because they are both Roman, but something within him stubbornly refuses to give it. Let Laetinianus earn his friendship, if he can.

Marcus gestures to a chair, one that looks reasonably stable. "Sit, and tell me about the activities of this unit."

And Laetinianus does so, embarking on a convoluted, hideous report; it is one of the worst that Marcus has ever heard. Marcus hopes that it is because the man is only drunk and not that he is irredeemably stupid. He rambles from topic to topic, mission to mission, completely uninformative as to tactical information, and all of it is filled with blistering invective for his own men—his own men!—who, to hear him tell it, are always needing to be beaten for this thing or the other thing.

"The worst, though, is this one fellow, Esca," the man confides, leaning in. "He's one of the decani, but to be honest he was only promoted so highly because his tent-mates insisted they would not serve without him to lead them. One of their damned bizarre British ideas, I suppose."

Marcus frowns. "I met him. Seemed... insubordinate. I've already asked him here; I was going to talk to him about discipline."

"Talking?" Laetinianus chuckles. "Oh, talking will do you no good with that one. You need the staff for certain! Even Viridio could barely keep him in line!" He laughs again, more drunkenly still.

"Nonetheless, I will give him the chance to prove himself to me," Marcus says, and as he says it he realizes that the man has not yet once mentioned the former commander, not until now. It is a very strange omission. For that matter, the optio has not mentioned why the men seem to be doing absolutely nothing, as if they have no orders, not even the usual sentry details and such other things as ought to come with camp life.

But before he can say anything, ask anything, Laetinianus rises, looking oddly green. "I will have the men assemble in uniform for you at daybreak tomorrow," he says, hurriedly, as if Marcus has already concluded the interview. "Forgive me, centurion, I must—"

The man's throat works oddly, and then he rises from the tent. Marcus hears the sound of retching from somewhere very nearby.

He learned nothing of use, then. Laetinianus could not even tell him who they had campaigned against most of the time, nor when and how. His optio is indeed a drunkard, possibly incompetent on top of that, hates the men, and is most likely going to be in this very post until someone kills him. Tartarus indeed.

Outside, the wind gusts hard, and his tent lists alarmingly downward. Marcus shuts his eyes and curses.

* * *

With his eyes shut, Marcus obviously doesn't see the man approaching, but the cough and the murmured "sir" alert him in to the fact that one of his soldiers has clearly taken the optio's abrupt departure as his cue to enter.

Marcus opens his eyes... and sees Esca. Esca, who has pieced together a uniform after all, stands before him. He looks Esca up and down, telling himself that he is not admiring the man's body, that he only wants to see what uniform Esca has made of the limited supplies they have on the frontier.

He half-feared Esca would show up in segmented-mail, or even worse, a borrowed set of formal parade gear, gilt breastplate and all, made for a man twice his size. Given the optio's choice of dress, a more reasonable expectation would be to see Esca in scaled-mail, as was Laetinianus, and even there it would still be ridiculous, as if Esca were swimming in it. Any of those things would dwarf him.

But Esca has gone for none of these choices, and is wearing—sensibly enough for a scout—lorica hamata, the lightest armor available. It suits him very well indeed. The mail-shirt hangs heavily off his shoulders and falls unimpeded to Esca's bare thighs. Underneath it he is wearing the usual subarmalis, one of the thick, padded and felted tunics to provide additional cushioning from blows and the chafing of the armor. He stands there bare-legged, thankfully having left the braccae off; the very bottom rings of the mail shine dark against pale skin and the only thing covering his calves are the top straps of his boots. Over it all, Marcus is pleased to see, he is even wearing a proper military cloak, one that is not too threadbare. Esca carries a helm tucked under one arm. He watches Marcus watching him, and a small smile plays across his lips.

To make the uniform as complete as possible, Esca is of course armed, and Marcus can only stare, mouth dry, as he takes note of the weaponry at Esca's belts. As is the custom for ordinary soldiers, a dagger hangs from his left side while the gladius is at his right, spanning almost the length of his thigh. The overall effect is deadly—but deadly not in the reassuring way that a centurion should feel proud of, looking at soldiers and knowing that this great and well-trained force is at your command. Esca looks deadly as would a slave who has had the master's weapons pressed into his hands, and an angry slave at that. It is not at all comforting. Marcus remembers, suddenly, the history taught to him of slave rebellions, long ago. And Spartacus, the one who had come the closest to toppling the state, he had been in the auxiliaries too, they said, before he was a slave. Marcus wonders if that man's commanders saw him and felt thus. Here is power, yes, but power he cannot trust.

Esca looks at him, still with that wild predator's smile. "Is my appearance now satisfactory to the centurion?" he murmurs, and somehow manages to make even that question sound insolent. _Yes_ , something deep and forbidden within Marcus says. _More than satisfactory._

Esca salutes, but unlike the lazy salute from earlier, this one has too much force in it. It matches the lethal nature of his stance, and all of it makes Marcus uncomfortable. It is not that it might arouse him, not that, never that.

But Esca is his subordinate, Marcus reminds himself, and he will not let this man dictate the terms of their conversation. Marcus raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Are you going to put on that helm, soldier, or only carry it?"

"I can if you want," Esca replies evenly, setting the helm on his head and fumbling with the leather thongs at the chin as if they are unfamiliar to him. "It is only that it is wisest in this century not to wear it at all."

What a strange statement. A single blow to the head, even a glancing one, can bring an unhelmeted man down, and it seems a dangerous risk to take. Certainly not a wise thing to do. Despite himself, Marcus finds that he is interested; Esca at least will share information with him, he hopes. "Why is that, then?"

"You know how the chin straps mar the skin of the throat, yes?" Esca asks, running his finger across his neck in illustration. "Men who wear the helmets often, the legionaries, have scars there?"

Marcus nods. He is not quite as callused there yet as some men he has seen, but he can feel the evidence at his own throat. "I have a scar there myself."

"The men of the tribes also know about the scars," Esca says, and gives him a thin, crooked smile that is not at all pleasant. Marcus can only imagine the number of Romans who must have died because of that knowledge. "They are not stupid, and our lack of scarring helps as proof of goodwill. Or feigned goodwill, I should say. I suppose we'll have to keep you away from any missions involving talking." His tone is thoughtful and oddly proprietary.

"You would have to anyway," Marcus points out, and somehow he has fallen into this trap, as if Esca is somehow his superior. "I don't speak British."

"I didn't think you did," Esca replies, and from his tone it is as if he is refraining from adding a sneering _Roman_ to the end. A fine tone to take with his commander, indeed, but Marcus cannot very well beat the man when he hasn't done anything.

"I could learn." The offer tumbles unexpectedly out of Marcus' mouth and hangs between them, a silent offering of peace. He has no idea what prompted him to say that.

Esca smiles, then, a true smile, and he looks away. "You'd never pass for one of us, but it is a kind gesture." Marcus pays attention to the words, so as not to think about how the sight of the smile makes him feel. Not _one of the tribesmen_ or _one of the Britons_. No, _one of us_. There are sides, and this man is on the wrong side for that uniform. Marcus finds that his mouth has gone dry again. 

Marcus coughs and changes the subject. "Thank you for bringing me the optio."

"Drunk and incompetent as ever?" Esca asks, his voice mild in comparison to his words.

Why is Esca saying these things? Is he trying to goad him? Does he want to be beaten already? Doesn't he know no soldier speaks that way to his commander? Marcus begins to feel his muscles tighten in the slightest stirrings of anger. "That's your optio you're talking about, soldier."

"It's the truth." Esca shrugs, or as much as he can in the armor, looking completely unfazed by the rebuke. "He was drunk when I found him for you and he never knows anything about anything. I'll wager Laetinianus told you nothing of the century and you're still sitting here wondering why you've got no tents and your men have no assigned duties."

He does have a point. An annoying point, but a point nonetheless. Marcus motions him to the same chair the optio occupied. "Why don't you tell me the answers, then?"

Esca's eyebrows rise, surprised, but he sits, weapons swinging at his sides as he moves. "The supplies are easy enough. We're at the end of the supply chain already, at this camp. Being north of your wall does that to you. And the quartermaster is a stingy Greek who thinks that if we're from here already, we won't mind sleeping with a mouthful of the local rain every night. It would be nice if you could get more out of him; Viridio didn't really care enough to try. Even when it was his tent—" he gestures upwards— "and even though this is the usual garrison we're encamped with when we're not on assignment. But mostly we do not use tents in the field, so the state at camp is not quite as important. As for the orders... you seem to be a man who's accustomed to serving with a standard line-of-battle cohort, yes?"

Marcus nods. "You could say that, yes." If by _could_ one meant that all of his hopes, all of his dreams, and most importantly all of his training had gone to being a proper legionary, someone who meets the enemy nobly with a shield-wall and does not stab them from behind as they sleep—then, yes, one could say that.

"Well," Esca says, and he frowns as though he is trying to think of the best way to explain it, "here we're a little different. Our orders pass to us through the garrison, of course, and we come here between missions. We aren't an officially permanent part of the camp, and so they don't treat us like the rest of the soldiers in terms of the watches and so on. And we're usually only here for a day or two at a time. Most of the time we're out and on the run, and we'll rendezvous with the rest of the cohort or send back single messengers to the camp if needed. The current situation is unusual for us. We've been waiting a month for Viridio's replacement, and they weren't going to send us out with just Laetinianus, because even the tribune doesn't hate us that much. Sir."

Marcus stares. It is so different from the normal order of things, where all soldiers in camp are set tasks as a matter of course, and where they pick up the usual daily duties, like serving as sentries. "So while you've been waiting for me you had no mission... and you weren't doing _anything_?" It is unbelievable.

Esca nods. "The optio, he occasionally sets us make-work orders if he's capable in the morning. You just caught us on an especially bad day. I shouldn't think they'll have real orders made out for you already by tomorrow morning, so they'll probably tell you to use your discretion and find something for us to do, and we can clean up the camp or run miles with the legionaries or whatever pleases you. I should probably tell you—" he gestures down at his outfit— "that we're all very unused to running in armor of any sort, if you want to take that into account. Mostly we don't even take it with us on assignment."

Marcus looks at him, stupefied. "You don't even wear armor?" He feels like somehow he ought to have known that, but then again, he's never been posted anywhere that had to have a unit of spies.

"Centurion Aquila," Esca says, finally using his name, and the way he says it makes it sound like _centurion_ is a nicer word for _you idiot_ , "what exactly do you think the irregulars do?"

Marcus clenches his jaw. This man is more knowledgeable than the optio, but he has to be the most infuriating person Marcus has ever met. And he does not think he can beat obedience into him. "My orders said you were scouts and spies."

"We are," says Esca. "We spend days at a time crouching in the mud watching the Votadini ride past and we note what they say and where they go. Or we meet a trader of the Selgovae on the road and act as though we are his best friend, and has he heard word of the tribes moving that he would give us? And sometimes we might spy Caledonii warriors, far in the north, and we might very carefully slit their throats in the night. But none of these things can we do dressed like Romans, in the armor and habits of Rome. It would be impractical for scouting and have us dead for spying."

"Oh."

That sounds true enough. He just... wishes Esca would not talk to him thus, as though he thinks Marcus is stupid. It is not only the insolence of it. He wants— he wants this man to like him. It is ridiculous.

"I hope that answers your questions," Esca says, flatly, as if he hopes no such thing, and Marcus feels just the smallest bit sadder hearing it.

Then one question does occur to him, the one no one has yet answered: "What about your last centurion?"

"Viridio?" Esca gives a short, sharp laugh, as if he finds the topic both hideous and amusing. "No one here will have anything fond to say about him. Except Laetinianus. He was always fawning over him; he thought it would earn him a transfer."

He hadn't meant to ask about what kind of man Viridio was, but he'll take any answer. "Did he not have the respect of the men?"

Esca laughs again. "Hardly. He thought us all ignorant, savage barbarians and slept with a dagger at hand every night, fearing for his life. That is, when he did not force us into deliberately foolhardy maneuvers intended to kill us. We hated him."

"And you?"

"I hated him very much," Esca says, simply, blandly, as if there is no emotion behind it. "He hated me too, worst of all of us. I think he thought me the most likely to want to kill him."

"Why?"

Esca's mouth firms. "I do not claim to know the affairs of the dead." But there is some story there that Esca knows, and he is not telling it.

"He's dead, then?" Somehow this fact surprises Marcus. "I had thought perhaps he might have been transferred to another cohort—"

Another laugh from Esca, dry and mocking. "No, he's quite dead, believe me."

"How did he die?"

"Oh, on a mission," Esca says, lazily, as if the matter is of no import. "He was stabbed in the back one night. Died instantly."

As Esca's mouth curves into a dangerous, pleased smile, knife-thin, Marcus is abruptly conscious of the fact that this man has come to him with weapons and is still armed. His mouth is dry again and he swallows and swallows and has nothing to say.

"Did you have any other questions, sir?" Esca asks, still with the same terrifying cast to his face. He can't have killed the centurion and still be serving. He would be dead now. Someone would have turned him in. But maybe not in this century, since they are all Britons, since they all hated the man—

"No," Marcus says, quickly, and waves him away. "You may go."

Esca—obediently, this time—gets up, and Marcus watches as the man's hands go reflexively to his hips, stilling the swinging arcs of his weapons as he walks away. This is a man who can handle himself in a fight, fair or unfair, his body says.

Every hour of this day keeps getting worse. _Well_ , Marcus thinks, half-angry and half-afraid, _if I am murdered in bed, at least it will be by someone pretty_.

* * *

The next day Marcus at least has the fortune to arise a little before the morning's trumpet-call. He scrambles into full uniform, trying to fasten his cloak hurriedly and one-handed over his mail-shirt while helping himself to slightly-stale bread left from the previous night. He will have to come up with a better routine later—if in fact they stay at the fort much longer—but for now it will do, as it is only the first full day of his first command. He is gulping down water when the trumpets finally do sound, and he steps out, vine-staff in hand, to see his century sprawled in their hides and cloaks on the ground before him, only beginning to stir at the noise. A couple of men who were in the tents are starting to drag themselves out.

Esca, one of the few awake men on the open ground, gives him a sleepy-eyed look Marcus cannot interpret, pushing himself up and half-out of the blankets with one elbow as Marcus picks his way past him, down smaller streets, and onto the main camp road, the via principalis. As all centurions must, Marcus is heading toward the principia, the very center of camp at which stands the praesidium, there to receive the day's orders from the tribunes, while his men breakfast.

Having arrived, Marcus steps easily into the back of the formation with the other centurions of the tenth auxiliary cohort, next to Eonus. His body falls reflexively into a stance of attention as his new tribune paces before them.

The tribune is an older man, with a scowling, hawk-like brow, who carries himself with all the authority one would expect from a man of such a rank. Marcus recalls his orders only dimly; he thinks the man's name might be Suilius.

"Scouts," he says, finally, as he comes around to address the tenth, "I have no specific orders for you today, but I expect that there will be need for you shortly. In the meantime I suggest that you put your men through their paces, have them fight, or do whatever you need to that you might ensure their field readiness. You may run with the legion, morning or afternoon as you prefer. The new centurion, though—" and here he stops in front of Marcus— "might take the time first to become accustomed to his command, yes?"

Marcus salutes, fist to chest. "As the tribune wills it."

He watches as the man's face crinkles in something that might equally be confusion or recognition. "Remind me of your name, centurion."

Marcus will have pride in his name, even if no one else will. "Marcus Flavius Aquila, sir."

"Aquila?" The tribune frowns more. "The name seems familiar. Did you perhaps have a relative who served in Britannia, years ago?"

By Hercules, now the man will have the whole sordid affair out of him—and at an assembly, no less, so now all the cohorts here will know in short order. This day is not going to go any better than yesterday. Still, he cannot fail to answer a tribune's question. Marcus straightens up, as tall as he can manage. "Yes, sir. My father was primus pilus of the Ninth Legion."

Just as he had thought, the man's face turns to a hideous mix of horror and sympathy, and he will not have sympathy for this, he will not. It is bad enough knowing that his father marched five thousand into Caledonia and never returned; it is worse having to live with the shame of it.

"You look very like him," Suilius says, more quietly now, and seems to be at a loss for words. If his father had been primus pilus in any other legion, it would be appropriate to compare him favorably to his father, or to wish him such good fortune to be promoted so highly, but here it is unthinkably ghastly. The tribune, visibly unsettled, opts for the smallest possible wish. "Luck to you, Aquila, and may the gods bless you."

Marcus salutes again, keeping his face perfectly still.

When the assembly finally breaks up, he mumbles muted replies even he doesn't remember to Eonus' startled "You're one of _those_ Aquilae?" Now everyone will know why he is here. It is like an exile for something he himself never did. He half-wishes Rome had sent him to Tomis and been done with him. But they did not, and so he will make the best of this, he thinks, as he walks the long road back to the walls.

Meeting over, it is time to see his men, now that they have breakfasted, and he is surprised when he comes upon their area of the camp. Laetinianus, carrying his staff, wearing an optio's tufted helm with his uniform, and looking perfectly sober, has chivvied the men into an arrangement resembling proper lines, and they stand—most of them in uniform, even—at something very much like attention. He cannot help but smile a little as he sees it from afar. Perhaps they are not so worthless as he has been told.

The men stand in ten lines, arranged by squad, a decanus heading each line. Most of the men stare blankly ahead; Esca tilts his head up almost defiantly and Marcus has to look away. He does not know what is in his eyes, but he is a man who has just been reminded of his failings and he does not want Esca—for some reason, Esca more than any other of them—to see that.

He supposes he ought to make some sort of speech, on the occasion of his new command; he remembers his own previous centurions doing such things, and curses the fact that he did not think to pay attention then to what they might have said. It hardly seemed important to him at the time. He suspects they were probably reminding him of his duty to the army, to the state. Well, so, he has no plan; nonetheless, he can surely manage to tell them something.

"My name is Marcus Flavius Aquila," he calls out, pacing the heads of the columns, "and I am your new centurion." He nearly expects to see the men recoil in remembered disgrace, as did the tribune, but none of these men move. Not a flicker. They do not know him. Of course they do not, he realizes—they are Britons all, why would they? Even if they knew of the Ninth, they surely could not name its men. Something inside him almost wants to smile. Perhaps commanding a band of wild Britons has its benefits. A fresh start, at least within the century.

He does not know where the words come from, but come they do, and as he opens his mouth Marcus finds that a speech spills from him anyway. "I know very little about the last man to hold this post, but I suspect that if he made speeches of this sort at all, they would be to remind you firmly of your loyalty to Rome, and then to insult you by suggesting you had none because you were not Romans, and no honor besides." Startled, nervous grins begin to break out on a few faces; this is not the speech they expected. Good. Laetinianus shifts anxiously and stamps his staff. This is not the side he wants Marcus to take; that much he made clear at their meeting yesterday.

"I will admit," Marcus continues, oddly compelled to honesty, "that this posting was a surprise to me, when I found that it was intended to dishonor me." He sees the men nod. They aren't stupid; they know their reputation, he is certain. "But I will not let it be a disgrace to me, and I will strive not to be a disgrace to you. I will assume, then, that no matter the reasons that led you to join, that you did so with your eyes open to what it means to be a soldier, to serve Rome, and I will not question that without need. I have never served with scouts, and I have never served in Britannia, so the land and the duties are unfamiliar to me—" he admits this willingly, oh, the strangeness of it— "and I ask for your help, and your patience, as you serve with the skill I know you are capable of. And also—" he allows himself a smile— "I would very much appreciate it if no one stabbed me in the back while I slept."

There is some laughter at that—Esca, curiously, is not one of the laughing men—and he lets the smile fall away. "As for orders," he says, more sternly, "I was told to prepare you for an upcoming mission, but I have not been told what that would entail. Perhaps, for the morning—" he gropes about for a quick plan— "you could wrestle? Surely you need some sort of fighting practice. Don't break anything, eh?"

He waves his hand, and they are dismissed.

The men smile then, as though he has allowed them some sort of extravagant luxury, when it is only wrestling. How has Viridio treated them? The smiles, though are a little strained, as if they do not trust him. Well. He would not trust him, either, if what Esca said was true (and why, he wonders suddenly, did he believe the man absolutely, without question?) about Viridio. And he has made Laetinianus even more anxious.

"You can't be planning to give them free rein," Laetinianus says under his breath, coming toward him. "By Pollux, you cannot command them as you would Romans! You cannot merely assume their loyalty! They're savages, the lot of them, they'll go mad, they'll—"

"They're my soldiers," Marcus interrupts, "and I'll command them as I like."

Laetinanus abruptly shuts his mouth, nostrils flaring. "Sir," he says, finally, in a tone that only barely suggests respect. "Very good."

Marcus suddenly has an idea. A brilliant, brilliant idea.

"Before you begin," he says to the men, beginning to form rings already, "could I borrow a few of you? You three, there—" he gestures to the three tallest, heaviest men in the century— "you will do nicely."

"What are you doing?" Laetinianus asks this practically loud enough for the entire century to hear.

Marcus stares. "I'm getting tents. Enough for the entire century, because this is a disgrace I can remedy." He points at the three men behind him. "They're going to help me carry them."

His optio looks completely taken aback. "There are no tents to give you— the quartermaster won't—"

"I'm getting tents," Marcus repeats.

Then, only then, does Esca turn and smile at him. Something in Marcus' heart lifts, and he tells himself this, all of this, the freedom and the largesse alike, is for the entire century. Not only for Esca, and especially not for Esca's smile. He is not certain whether he believes himself, but perhaps the thing will become true the more he says it.

* * *

The quartermaster's name is Dikaiopolis, and, exactly as described, he is a stingy Greek. Oh, there is more to him than that, of course; he is balding, and his uniform's tunic is running ragged around the neckline, as though he cannot spare a better one for himself. He glares at Marcus, in fact, as though he cannot spare one of anything to anyone for any reason at all.

"There are no ready tents," the man says, sounding very angry with Marcus just for having asked. "None. Oh, I could put in for some, certainly, and perhaps in a month the supply train might come back, but with anything of use or value having been commandeered by those sluggards on the wall who cannot be bothered to make their own requests. And once it arrives, if you are not quick about it, another man will take your tents before you have even heard word of the supplies' arrival. We make do with what we have, centurion. I understand you are new here—"

Marcus holds up his hands in supplication. "I do not mean to put impossible tasks on you," he says, hoping he sounds at least comforting. "And we certainly do not need fine new work requisitioned. I only thought—" the idea occurs to him as he talks— "that if you had leftover scraps, things that have not been mended yet, or thought to be past mending, that I might have some of that."

Dikaiopolis blinks, seemingly rendered mute by this most unusual request. "I—" he stops, then tries again. "Of course there is leather. But none of it is sized for a tent, and the scraps that once used to be tents will need to be sewn."

"Perfect," Marcus says. "What can I have? Goat-hide? Heavy thread and needles? Poles?"

The quartermaster shrugs as if to say _all of it_.

And so he takes all of it. The three men Marcus picked—Aratus, Gryllus, and Crimos, their names turn out to be—carry the bulky bundles with ease, and Marcus feels his chest beginning to lighten in a strange sort of pride as they make their way back. He may now command the lowest century of the lowest cohort, but they will have proper supplies. He will do right by them.

Back at his area of the camp now, he sees that the men have indeed taken to wrestling; many of them form a loose circle with two men in the center, too far away to see properly. He will just wait until this bout is over before informing them of the tents; it is the courteous thing to do. Marcus motions his three soldiers to put down their burdens, and he steps even closer to watch. One man is far smaller than the other—how can this match be a fair one?—and they both seem to hold themselves with a certain wariness.

The nearer he gets to the fighting men, the odder it gets. Something about their motion is wrong, but he cannot quite figure out how. They do not close as wrestlers do, each seeking to throw their weight on top of the other, but instead they remain apart, circling, looking for an opening and unwilling to commit to an attack, lest they be injured. It is very like a knife-fight, he thinks, and then he sees the unexpected glint of metal in one man's hand. No—it _is_ a knife-fight.

"I believe I said wrestling," Marcus murmurs to no one in particular, moving in still closer. "I don't recall mentioning daggers."

The two men continue to circle, and he sees now that his imposition of uniforms only lasted as long as the assembly, for the two fighters are wearing only braccae and boots, both bare to the waist. They're fighting until first blood, he guesses; that is easier for the crowd to see against bare skin.

"I told you you cannot treat them as Romans," Laetinianus grumbles from somewhere behind him. "They wrestled for a few falls and grew bored, and out came the weapons."

Marcus turns and, in the carefully-calculated arch tone of a superior, asks, "And you did not stop them?"

Laetinianus reddens and says nothing.

Well, he will certainly not distract men with knives. He only hopes neither of them will come to harm from it, for if they are bad fighters mistakes are all too easy.

Crimos steps up next to him, eyes flickering over to him briefly, away from the fight. The man must have divined something of Marcus' thoughts from his expression, for he smiles a reassuring smile. "Relax, sir. Esca and Igennus are both very skilled with daggers. They're the best in the century. No one's getting hurt."

Though Marcus knows the words are intended to calm him, they do the opposite. That's Esca out there? Already insubordinate, and now fighting? Is Esca doing this to irritate him? To test his limits? To see what he can get away with before Marcus will have to beat him?

Marcus moves even closer, to the very innermost ring of men watching the fight, and he can finally see that, yes, the smaller of the two fighters is Esca. Esca fights with a pure, natural grace, like that of his running earlier, weaving easily in and out of Igennus' reach in a deadly dance, sliding in for his own feints before darting away. He is well-built for this sort of fighting, too; Marcus feels his resolve not to lust after the man begin to crumble, seeing Esca's body displayed like this, almost as a spectacle of the arena, practically an invitation toward wanton gaze. Esca is wiry and light, just the sort of shape that pleases Marcus most, and he cannot help but follow with his eyes the line of Esca's hips, the way the muscle traces down next to his hipbone just so, and he can easily imagine following it, with his eyes, with his hands, down underneath the thin braccae—

He is staring. This man is his subordinate. He cannot. He will not. It is only lust, a passing fancy, one that will surely leave him soon enough. Marcus swallows and focuses his attention properly on the fight itself.

And it is over sooner than he thinks. The taller one, Igennus, leaves an opening at his side and Esca rushes him. His precise movements are obscured by his body, but the knife slides out of Igennus' hand, across the dirt, and then Esca somehow has the man pinned, sitting on him, and from the way his arm is positioned he is surely holding the dagger at Igennus' throat. Igennus flexes against him once, then yields down into the earth, the familiar language of the defeated.

There are pleased looks all around the ring, and Igennus and Esca come to their feet and finally seem to notice that their commander has been watching all this time. What shall he say? Shall he punish them already for this? No, he thinks, he cannot gain the men's trust if he is shown to be that rigid and humorless already. A reminder, then, is best. And he is not looking, oh, he is not noticing at all the way Esca is looking at him, smiling a victor's smile, panting, skin flushed from the exertion, exhilarated—

"That was well-fought," Marcus says, pitched loudly enough for the century to hear, and the men all turn to listen. "Only next time, ask before you bring out the daggers."

Damn him, but Esca does not look even a little chastened. Marcus continues. "And I have begged material from the quartermaster, scraps of tents; he says we must sew them back together ourselves." He gestures, then, to the pile of fabric and poles. "They will be worn, but they will be ours."

The men smile, and the glint in Esca's eyes changes to something that might, perhaps, be approval. Marcus tells himself this does not matter to him.

They spend the rest of the day setting the camp to rights, and Marcus only has to berate a few men who think sewing might be women's work—"you should be glad you were not taken into the army as sailors," he tells them, "for you would do this every day, with the canvas sails, in the cold and rain besides"—and that quiets them quickly enough. Everyone else is more than happy to work needles through leather for the gain of having tents. A brighter group (and of course, Marcus realizes as he watches, this is Esca's squad) starts by taking down one of the existing tents to get the lay of the pattern. Two of them even know how to sew a waterproof tent-seam; they, skilled at this task, are willing to help the others.

Toward the end of the day, when all but one of the new tents are up, Marcus begs help for his. And so Carantos, a huge, burly Briton from Esca's squad, comes in, and together they push in a new, unbroken pole, and they ease out the old one. His tent finally stops tilting.

"Well," Marcus says, satisfied, "that's almost the end of it. If the last squad will get theirs up, then we can say we are indeed a properly-equipped century, each tent with a tent."

Carantos wipes the back of his hand on his forehead and looks at Marcus nervously, as though he is not quite sure that this is not some kind of joke and Marcus will begin beating them next. "Camulorix' squad will manage," he says, and his accent is thick, thicker than Esca's. "And, sir, if I can say—"

Marcus gestures at him to go on.

Carantos shifts from foot to foot. "We wanted to thank you for caring, sir. Some of us, at least. It might take a while for everyone to—"

"I understand." He allows himself a smile. "Thank you, soldier."

That night, Marcus sleeps well in his mended tent, curled up on the small pallet that is his, and dreams it is Esca who has come to thank him.

* * *

The next several days pass similarly to the first, the way camp life often does. Marcus does send his century on morning runs with the legionaries, even in armor, and in the afternoon the men are checking and mending their gear, in readiness for their real next assignment, wandering in and out of the common areas of Marcus' tent (for it is their tent too), laughing and talking sometimes in British, sometimes in Latin. Marcus pulls more and more scrolls out of scroll-cases, reading through old reports—whoever Viridio's scribe was, his hand was execrable—hardly looking up most of the time. He stares at maps far into the night, reading by flickering lamp-light, squinting until his eyes burn, as if he can learn the lay of the land by seeing it drawn on papyrus.

Finally—it seems like hardly any time has passed at all, but when Marcus takes stock of it he realizes it was from the Nones to the Ides—one morning Suilius has real orders for him. He scrawls them down on wax to pass back to Laetinianus, who should really be attending morning assembly with him to write it down, but Laetinianus is never awake for it. These orders sound very similar to some of the previous orders he has been reading about: the Votadini, who usually live much further to the east, are starting to move in this direction, skirting the edges of this land, which is the territory of the Selgovae. Marcus' century is to track their movements without being seen, observe, and report whether they seem to be directly threatening any Roman-held areas. This seems to Marcus like a mission that is simple enough, especially as it requires no open contact with the enemy. Good. It will be a good first mission. He can do this.

Back in the sixth century's part of the camp, he shakes Laetinianus awake—he has somehow missed breakfast with the rest of the century, and they did not see fit to wake him—and he is thankful that the man was asleep and not drunk already, as he passes him the folded tablet. The rest of the century has taken this opportunity to sit around idly, without him awake to order them about. Marcus tries out a stern glare in their direction as Laetinianus grumbles sleepily.

"Optio," he says quietly, in Laetinianus' ear. "The day's orders."

Laetinianus comes fully awake then, finally, flipping the tablet open and mouthing the words to himself. Then he stands up, optio's staff next to him—is he ever without it?—and announces the contents to the men.

"Orders!" he calls out. "We go east to keep watch on the Votadini. Short duration, pack light. _Decani_ , ready your squads!"

And as Marcus watches in a stunned sort of appreciation, Esca, the nearest decanus, begins giving his men a vast and precise set of orders, the scope and details of which were not suggested to Marcus in any of the reports.

"Right," Esca snaps out, and six men—for the unfortunate Vatto's arm is still healing—regard him with instant respect. "Short mission, you know the routine. No uniforms, no armor, no shields. Dress like a local. Light gear, which means satchels and not furcae, so just cloaks for bedrolls, though wrap an extra hide round your gear if you think you'll need it at night. Nothing longer than daggers, and nothing—" he pauses to glare at one of them— "nothing that looks Roman. This means no gladii—yes, you, Ancus! And no Roman daggers! Bows only if you want to carry them the whole way; don't come whining to me when your quiver's too heavy. Mess gear! Sintorix, bring your own food this time because I'm not sharing my bucellatum again. If you have to talk to someone who doesn't want to kill you, today you'll be from the Novantae, so try to sound like it, eh?" He says some words in British, and a few men laugh, so Marcus gathers he must have said them with some peculiar accent. "We'll split up in the field. Get your gear and I'll be by to check you."

Esca dismisses them with a curt jerk of his head, and Marcus is still staring at him in awe. Marcus' own orders mentioned none of these fine details, but he can see, now that Esca has said them, how necessary they must be to the squad's success.

"Yes?" Esca asks, seeing him staring. The expression on his face must be strange indeed. "Did I give some order not to your liking?"

"No," Marcus assures him. "It is only that I have never served with scouts, so I do not know how any of these small details go. I suppose it would be wise for me to follow these orders as well?"

The corners of Esca's mouth twitch a little, and something inside Marcus glows warm. "I would if I were you, excepting the advice about the accent. I think, as I said, it would be wiser if you stayed silent."

"I can do that," he promises. The cloak and field rations, those are easy, since he has those. He does own braccae, for when the weather gets colder, later in the year; he is not so obstinately Roman that he would never wear them at all, but he supposes he can begin wearing them now. The weapons, now, those are a problem. He frowns. Oh, he has a fine dagger, but it is Roman through and through, adorned in silvered designs of the she-wolf with the twins Romulus and Remus on hilt and scabbard, given him by his aunt's new husband when he turned eighteen and joined the army, as a grudging recognition of his service. It will not do. No Briton—nor anyone who is pretending to be a Briton—would ever carry it.

Esca must notice the worried nature of his thoughts on his face, for Esca's own face shifts into a kind of concern. "Is there a problem?"

"It is only that my weapons are all Roman," Marcus says, feeling his skin grow hot in embarrassment. He wants to be prepared and confident before this man. "I do not have a suitable dagger I could take." As he says it the thought drifts idly through his head of that statement of Plato's that he learned as a boy, the one that gave rise to the Sacred Band, that the best army would be pairs of lovers, for they would fight harder that the one might not shame himself before the other. Perhaps there was truth there, since here he is, already feeling shame about his lack of readiness, before this man who should mean no more than any other soldier. It will pass, he tells himself. It is only a base, physical desire. It must pass.

Esca stares at him for a long time, as if the words he has heard are somehow entirely different than what Marcus said, a difficult question for which he needs to work out the answer.

"Wait here," Esca says, and his voice is carefully, strangely empty of emotion. "I have another dagger."

So Marcus waits as Esca disappears into one of the tents, and comes back holding a small dagger. The dagger is clearly British in nature and of very good make, worked all over with twining patterns. Esca unsheathes it just a little to show him the sharpness and quality of the blade before pressing it into his hands. He does not meet Marcus' eyes.

"Thank you." It is the polite thing to say, after all.

Abruptly, Esca's hands close over his, pushing his fingers around the dagger so that he grips it tightly. Esca's fingers are warm and slightly callused, and he swallows hard to try not to think about the feel of them. It is the first time Esca has touched him.

"Guard it with your life, Aquila," Esca says, meeting his eyes now, and his words are rough, voice hoarse, as though he is fighting back some strong emotion. "If it is lost, I— I cannot get another like it."

It seems a very strange request for Esca to make, and a strange way to act, especially as he's giving this to him of his own free will. Perhaps the dagger is the prized work of some long-dead master weapon-smith? It does not make sense. But it is what Esca has asked of him, and he will honor it.

Marcus nods. "I will keep it safe for you."

Esca opens his mouth again then and closes it after a second or two, as if he wanted to say something else in return. But he says nothing, drops his hands, and turns instead to check on his men. Marcus clutches the dagger tighter and can only wonder what that was about.

* * *

The century has barely marched away from the fort, into the woods to the east, when Marcus realizes that none of the maps have prepared him for the reality of it. Already the land is entirely unfamiliar. He nods authoritatively a few times and tries to look as though he knows what he is doing. Laetinianus, after appealing quietly to him for permission, splits up the men by squads, and he arranges search directions and a rendezvous point that—to judge by the looks on everyone's faces—is familiar to them. Perhaps the optio is not completely useless, after all. Marcus trusts that he himself will learn this terrain soon enough, to be able to give the same orders.

Then Laetinianus stands by Camulorix' squad, and Marcus realizes that he, too, should pick a squad to attend now, as they are already splitting up.

"Well, sir?" Laetinianus stamps his staff—his very Roman optio's staff, because he has in no way considered Esca's, or any other of the Britons', suggestions—and asks, "Shall we head out? Who will you accompany? Me?"

He ought to accompany Laetinianus; is it not the sensible thing for a centurion and his second-in-command to stay together? That way he can delegate effectively to the man. But then why would he offer him the choice? Marcus opens his mouth, about to say that, certainly, he will go with his optio, when someone behind him curls an almost-possessive hand on his shoulder.

"I'll take him." The voice rings out, confident and loud, and Marcus turns to see that it is Esca.

It surprises him that Esca would seek out his company; it surprises him, in fact, into saying nothing, so that even the extraordinarily brazen Esca drops his hand and hedges the rest of his reply. Marcus' face is still with astonishment, likely unreadable, and Esca takes it for a negative.

"That is," Esca adds, "if the centurion wishes."

Oh, how he wishes. He allows himself the quick luxury of filling in the rest of the sentence with words he is positive the man will never say or intend toward him. Marcus nods firmly. "That will be acceptable."

He almost thinks he sees Esca smile, but no, it must be some trick of the light playing through the trees.

Laetinianus looks at him as though he is insane. Understandable, given the things he's said about Esca. "Very well, sir," he says, not even bothering to make it sound as though he approves of this plan. And then, to the century: "Is everyone ready?"

No one says otherwise, and so Marcus calls the command. "Split up by squad, and good fortune to you."

Marcus adjusts his satchel across his back—how odd to carry it by itself and not on a furca—to position it better under the heavy traveling cloak. With these clothes, especially the braccae, he fancies he looks very much like a Briton indeed, though he feels silly and effeminate in the long-sleeved tunic. The fabric lies unfamiliarly and heavily on Marcus' arms and he picks self-consciously at the cuffs against his wrists, even though no one Roman is around to disapprove of his attire. Esca suggested the outfit before they left; it has the additional effect of covering up the lack of tattoos on Marcus' body. Un-inked skin, he has gathered, would be very unusual for the sort of man he is pretending to be. It is very odd, this business of spying. He follows the rest of Esca's squad into the forest and wonders why the man picked him.

He decides he has to ask, and catches up with Esca at the rear of the group, who is loping along, nimbly making his way over twisted tree limbs, and generally making the whole thing look easy. Marcus nearly trips on a rock. "I was going to go with the optio."

Esca doesn't look at him, only keeps walking. "I know you were."

"Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

Esca turns to him and laughs at that, a real laugh, and, oh, he should be annoyed that the man is mocking his superiors, but something about the joy of the sound pleases him beyond the telling of it. "I thought you might not want to die, Aquila, seeing as how you explained that you knew nothing of scouting."

"And Laetinianus knows nothing?" Somehow this should not surprise him.

Esca snorts. "He is bringing Roman gear on a spying mission. He always does. Usually we get Camulorix to take care of him like he thinks he's in charge here and prevent him from getting anyone else killed. You're safer with me."

Marcus has to raise an eyebrow, even though Esca can't see it. "How do I know you won't get me killed?" _Like you might have killed your last centurion_ , he wants to add.

In front of him, Esca's shoulders move in a shrug, and he says, completely blandly, "You don't, but I don't hate you yet, sir, so your chances are fairly good. I like to keep my options open, though." He suspects Esca is smiling that awful smile again.

If this is British humor, Marcus wants no part of it. "Thank you, _decane_." He allows iciness to pervade his voice; perhaps this will dissuade him.

This, of course, has no effect on Esca, who gives an exaggerated sigh. His head shakes like he's smiling ruefully, but he doesn't turn, so Marcus can't be sure. "Relax, Aquila. I'm the best in your century." He says this without any hint of bravado, as another man might have; he says it simply, as though this is the absolute truth. "You'll be fine. I'll show you what you need to know. For now, just watch where you're walking."

Not more than an hour or two later, slogging uphill, when the forest is empty of all but animals and the noise of the other squads has disappeared into the distance, Esca elects to slow the squad's pace to something more leisurely, and then finally to halt them. At some signal Marcus doesn't quite see, they all stop and come to a semicircle within a small clearing.

"All right," Esca says, quietly, but with a note of command in his voice. "My best guess is the Votadini trail is on the other side of this valley, and then the hill after that—you know the one—and if they're cutting this way it will take them a while. Pair up and take positions, but track all the way there in case I'm wrong. Now the waiting starts. I'll be at the top of the ridge, the usual place; check in on the usual schedule. That's today's plan. Keep cover."

He eyes Marcus as if waiting for the order to be countermanded, but Marcus just nods, and the men all seem to melt silently away into the forest, leaving only him and Esca alone in the glade.

"You keep acting," Marcus says, at last, "as if you expect me to tell your men otherwise."

Esca looks at him almost helplessly, as though he thinks there is some obvious answer that Marcus ought to know. "You're my commanding officer, sir," he says, quietly, like there is finally some discipline in him after all. "And we are yours, to order as you wish."

"And I already told you," Marcus replies, "that I am new to this business of commanding scouts, and for now will yield to you until I can give what I think to be the best orders. Your orders seemed perfectly sensible to me. Do you believe that I will countermand them just because I can?" As he says it he realizes that, yes, this must exactly be what Esca believes, although he is not sure why.

"Viridio did," Esca says, darkly. Some memory has been stirred up here. "Laetinianus does. You're all—" He breaks off, unwilling to go this far, but Marcus begins to see; it is the company Esca has grouped him with.

"Have you ever had a commander who wasn't a native Roman?" he asks, carefully, and Esca's face tenses and then goes blank. This is the reason, he knows.

Esca's features suddenly twist into something ugly and mocking. "You mean you hadn't guessed it the day you came, centurion? Your superiors want someone who will keep us in line, held tightly. They regret ever recruiting any of us. And they certainly would not trust us to give orders. To them we Britons are no better than wild animals. Worse than animals, even, for at least an animal can be trained, and they say we cannot be; they say they chain us back that they might point us at the enemy and let go. I am sure Laetinianus has warned you about us. I have heard him telling you so."

Marcus is hot with anger now, and he doesn't even know why. Is he mad at his own commanders, or at Esca for instantly judging him and assuming the worst? Which is more awful, to him? He does not know.

"You are a soldier of Rome," Marcus says, fiercely, "and if you say you swore in your heart to serve her, I will treat you no differently than any other man I have served with. The same goes for the rest of the men. I care not about who you were before you joined, or where you are from; it is no business of mine. I understand others may have hated you, Esca, but I swear I am not as they are."

Esca's look is one of complete disbelief, returning the same anger Marcus has given him. Then, suddenly, the man makes a decision: the disbelief turns into a half-smile followed by a real salute. "Sir."

Marcus smiles back, only a little. It is a tentative amount of trust, and he will have to prove his words with actions, but he will take it. "It's all right, _decane_ ," he says. "Now, show me where we are going."

"Up there." Esca turns, pointing, and they head off.

It is a good thing that Esca has taken him on as a pupil, of a sort, Marcus discovers a short time later—for scouting, much like legionary training, is the kind of thing that requires precise training to execute precise movements. And neither of those does he have yet, at least as far as Esca is concerned. Which is what he finds out, after an hour of trying to stay perfectly still amidst dense bushes next to some broken bits of grass at the top of a ridge that Esca insists is a trail, as unlikely as that sounds to him.

He has given Esca the lead here, temporarily; he has to respect that.

"Ow." His legs are cramping again, and while he knows he should not move he has to. He has to, his body tells him, otherwise it feels as though he will never move again. So he slides his legs out behind him on the ground, hissing with renewed pain as the unused muscles protest. And to think he'd always thought the scouting life was soft, with all that sitting around. "This hurts."

"Be still. And if you're not going to be still, at least be silent." Esca's breath on his ear has just enough sound in it for him to hear, so precisely has he pitched it. Marcus does not bother turning his head; he wouldn't be able to see much of the man in this dimness, and besides, he should not move any more. He has learned this much, at least.

So he shuts his mouth and does not give Esca a piece of his irritated mind; out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Esca's crooked smile.

There is no sign of any life on the trail for the rest of the day, but Marcus knows this is to be a lesson for him in all the ways of scouting whether or not the enemy is there, and so he does not complain of it. It would be ridiculous, anyway, to complain to his subordinate—it is not as if Esca is somehow making him do this. It is not as if Esca is really in command.

At twilight Gavo, Galerus and Carantos show up, stepping out from the shadows as quickly and silently as they disappeared earlier. Marcus does not even notice them until Carantos touches his leg, which makes him startle so hard he slides down the hillside and out of the bushes, scraping his skin as he goes, and he has his—or rather, Esca's—dagger half-drawn before he recognizes them. He hopes the look on Esca's face is not suppressed laughter, but he thinks it might be.

Esca smiles at him, more kindly now, touching his shoulder, and with a few significant glances at him and then back at the forest Marcus understands. They are to retreat to where they can speak aloud, beyond where anyone on this trail could hear them.

"News?" Esca asks, once the shadows of the trees have covered them and Marcus can no longer see the trail. 

Galerus' gaze fixes on Marcus as he makes his report, as is proper, and he salutes and does all the respectful things, but as Marcus watches he is taking his cues from Esca's slight nods rather than Marcus'. This is only to be expected, Marcus thinks; Galerus has been reporting to Esca far longer than to Marcus. But still, it makes him uncomfortable. Carantos is more polite, friendlier; he has seemed the most welcoming man of the squad, so far. But neither of them have seen anything. Gavo mumbles something that isn't even Latin.

Esca eyes Marcus in response to Marcus' raised eyebrow. "He hasn't seen anything. And he does not speak Latin very well."

Marcus tries not to sigh. "Can you at least have him salute?"

Esca's face is dubious, but he says a few words in British, and Gavo does at least attempt a salute.

"Thank him for me."

Esca does—or at least he hopes that's what Esca does—and Gavo nods. He looks every inch the Briton, and hardly like anyone who would be taking orders from Marcus, even if he did understand Latin. Well. It will change soon. He hopes it will, at least.

"You can all go for the night," Marcus says, and then he thinks to look at Esca. "Unless there's some reason to stay here." But Esca shakes his head.

Then the three disappear, and now it is him and Esca again. A feeling he can't quite name, half-strange, half-familiar, runs through him and makes him shiver, and it is not the cold British night. It is only the two of them. Anything could happen. He could— he could— no. He doesn't let himself get as far as imagining anything. He must refuse this. All of this.

"We should eat and bed down, I suppose," Marcus says, feeling alone in the darkness. "Shall I make a fire?"

What he can make out of Esca's face is absolutely incredulous, and Esca makes a noise that might have been a strangled laugh, and then there are a few heavy breaths while the man composes himself. "No, sir," he says finally. "No fire."

"Oh." Marcus is grateful for the dark; Esca cannot see his face burning. Of course they do not want a fire, he realizes, only too late; it is as good as telling their quarry where they are.

So they eat tasteless bucellatum silently until Esca tilts his head over at him. "Do you want first watch of the Votadini trail, or shall I?"

"I'll take it," Marcus says, gratefully, as Esca nods and curls up in his cloak. Esca, who doesn't like him, who thinks him stupid, turns over and ignores him, and Marcus doesn't care, he doesn't. It will be easier this way, too, if Esca hates him. Something in Marcus' chest knots and twists and does not loosen even through the first watch of the night.

* * *

Esca is of course awake before him, having taken sentry duty for the fourth watch, and when Marcus opens his eyes Esca is standing above him.

"What do you know about tracking or moving silently?"

Marcus blinks his bleary eyes. "I— very little."

"I thought as much," Esca says, handing him more bucellatum and water as he sits up. "Gavo will hold the position we were holding for the day, as I don't think the Votadini will arrive until at least tomorrow, and I'll show you how not to get yourself killed." He smiles, then seems to remember his rank then and adds, "If this is acceptable, sir."

"You do like me," Marcus says, still sleep-fogged, too free with his tongue, and then realizes what he has just inadvertently said. Oh, that was in no way appropriate.

But Esca laughs, and Marcus thanks the gods that Esca took it as a joke. "I said I hadn't decided yet."

"Will you let me know when you do?" Marcus tries to force himself into making more of a jest of it, so that Esca will not figure it out. "I would tire quickly of guarding my back from you every night for the rest of this command."

Esca nods and then bites his lip, face suddenly gone serious. "I didn't kill Viridio. None of us did. It was enemy action. I just— wanted you to know that. Even if I did happen to hate you as much, I wouldn't—"

"I understand," Marcus cuts in, and is suddenly, pathetically grateful that Esca has told him this. It is a sign of trust, in a way. A very, very small one.

It turns out to be a sign that he is even more grateful for after a few hours have passed, because clinging to the idea that Esca likes him in even some small way and is doing this because he doesn't want him dead is the only thing keeping him from turning on Esca and all his almost-mocking almost-insolence in a rage.

Marcus, as he soon discovers about himself, cannot follow a trail, and worse, can hardly disguise his.

"Again," Esca snaps out, coming up on Marcus where he is standing behind a tree he would have sworn he left no track to, even after doubling back through a stream, and Marcus only barely keeps himself from punching Esca in the face.

"What did I do?"

Esca points at fallen leaves that look no different to any other, and at twigs that to Marcus' eye are only twigs. "That. And if you're going to run through the water, don't come out of it onto the driest place on the riverbank. That was obvious."

They try it again, and again, and after the third time Marcus tries tracking Esca, but gives up an hour later when Esca jumps out of a tree he'd never considered that anyone could climb and taps him on the shoulder.

"All right," Esca says, seeming to read the look of anger on Marcus' face as though it is some measure of his competence as an instructor. "I think it is time to try something else. How are you with a bow?"

Marcus smiles at this, his ire draining, relieved to be back on ground that is at least somewhat familiar. He had learned to shoot when he joined the army, though never quite as seriously as he took his other weapons-work. His first centurion had been of the opinion that all of his men should be able to do a bit of everything, so Marcus had brought his skills up to a level he considered passable, with the help of the local cohort of Syrian archers. He thinks they were Syrians; they had been from far to the east. Maybe farther than Syria. It had been good enough for the centurion, at least. Certainly it would be good enough for Esca.

"How good do I need to be?" he drawls, smiling.

"Out here, that depends on how hungry you are," Esca says, grinning back. "Or how sick you are of eating bucellatum. Or whether the man you want to kill is far away. Come, if you can catch anything today, I'll even let you build a fire and cook it before you eat it. Sir."

"I don't have a bow."

Esca shrugs. "I'll loan you mine."

For, despite his warnings to his own men, Esca has brought his own bow. Marcus never examined it closely the day before, and now stares stupidly at the single piece of wood that Esca presses into his hands. It is inelegant compared to the double-curved Roman bows he has used, and will be harder for him, he thinks; this must be what the Britons use, though, else Esca would not have it. But it will be close enough—a bow is a bow, and he is sure he can manage.

"Thank you."

Esca holds out the quiver. "Here, and try to save me some arrows. Sir." Again, the word sounds like a complete afterthought on his part.

Marcus takes the quiver and waits, but when no further gear is forthcoming he has to ask, "Can I also borrow a thumb ring?" Esca's hands are smaller than his, but it might fit.

"A what? I don't have any rings." Esca's face begins to cloud a little in confusion. 

And now Marcus doesn't understand either. "How else do you expect me to shoot?" He mimes the draw, wrapping his thumb around the bowstring.

Esca just stares. "What do they teach you in Rome these days? You can't draw like that here. Not if you want to pretend to be a Briton. I suppose some Easterners taught you to shoot, did they?" The gesture he makes is entirely different, an imaginary arrow between his first two fingers.

"Oh."

He does not even bother to hide the crestfallen look he is sure is on his face. Archery is the one thing he thought he might be able to impress Esca with, and it turns out Esca will have to teach him this, too.

The rest of the day is a failure. It is an embarrassingly long time before Marcus even manages to draw before having the arrow just fall out; there is apparently some trick to tilting the bow exactly so, that one must learn in this style. Marcus does not even want to think about how many times he drops arrows, and misses, and misses, and misses, until by the end of it entirely different muscles in his arms are sore and he has not even come close to any of the game he tries for, but most of the time can manage to hit the plant life, although not with any of the speed and skill he is accustomed to for himself. Esca only makes a sour face at him once, when he misses the bush and buries an arrow deep enough into a tree that they cannot fetch it out again without breaking it.

When the men come back to report the continued lack of news, neither of them mention how Marcus has spent his day.

The meal that evening is bucellatum again, and Esca must pity him, because he builds them a fire anyway, a small one, taking care to hide it so that there is hardly any smoke.

Marcus sits and stares glumly at the little sparks and licking tendrils of the flames, and not at Esca's face. In his mind he composes a letter to his aunt. It is a ridiculous impulse. He has hardly sent her any letters thus far; why should he begin now? Neither she nor his step-uncle cared overmuch for him. But nonetheless, the words start:

 _M. Flavius Aquila Corneliae salutem dicit._  
 _If things are well with you, then—_ he can't even lie his way through the expected words of opening— _they are not well with me, Aunt. I am sent to Britannia to shame myself, to command a force of scouts, that I might show my incompetence, as I have not been trained to fight in this manner. The men of my command are all Britons and they do not act as proper Romans do. And the one I find myself accompanying most frequently is the one who thinks the worst of me. He is the most insubordinate, the most infuriating, the most beautiful—_

He stops in horror at his own thoughts, to see that his gaze has drifted up to Esca's face, and Esca is smiling at him ever so slightly across the fire.

"It's all right, you know," Esca says, sounding almost kind, and Marcus has the irrational, awful idea that somehow Esca knows every one of his thoughts. It feels as though he cannot breathe, that all the blood in his veins has turned to ice.

He manages to choke out a question. "Is it?"

Esca nods. "It is only this difficult at first, learning the tricks of scouting and spying. It was hard for me in the beginning, too," he says, sounding sheepish, as though this was not quite something he wanted to confess. "I am sure you will learn it all soon. You would not have risen to centurion were you a bad soldier. I did not mean to sound hard, earlier."

Marcus starts to breathe again. Esca does not know his thoughts after all. It is all right, indeed. "I took no offense and I am glad to hear it," he says.

"I did not want you to think yourself that inept," Esca says, and his voice is oddly gentle. Esca's reassuring him, Marcus realizes, and it is only so strange because who would ever think that he, a centurion, would need reassurance from his own soldier, who has somehow spent the day berating him with Marcus' full permission? Esca seems to realize the strangeness of this too, for he adds, sounding rueful, "That, and I do not want you to think me cruel and insubordinate. Sir. I would rather not have the staff on my back again already."

What can he say to that? If Esca were anyone else, the beating would have happened long ago, but Marcus took the measure of Esca the first day. "I could beat you," he says, and Esca's eyes narrow a little. "But I do not think you would learn anything by it except to hate me for giving it to you." He speaks more honestly than he perhaps should, but Esca is being honest with him as well.

Esca laughs, a dry sound with no humor in it. "I wish Viridio had known that."

"Did he take well to this scouting?" Marcus asks, the question occurring to him before he can think better than to say it. He can hardly imagine the man as Esca has described him liking this business of learning to dress like a Briton, or shoot like one, or do anything that was less than Roman.

Another laugh. "Hardly. I told you no one got along with him." And then Esca smiles at him, a real, true smile, and something warm and perfect shivers down his spine. "You have already been the best to us so far, better than any other Roman they've ever given us. No one else cared for the clothing, or learned to shoot, or any of it. I've certainly never lent anyone—"

Esca stops abruptly, and his eyes go to the dagger, at Marcus' belt, and he makes a strange helpless gesture, as if he does not quite understand himself why he lent Marcus it. But it means something to Esca, and so the mere fact that he has done so is enough to fill Marcus with an odd tingling pride.

"Thank you," Marcus murmurs. "Whatever it means to you, I will try to be worthy of it."

Esca nods gravely and says no more.

The night presses in on them now; the conversation is already too serious, beyond their ability to hold it. Marcus grins and makes it a joke. He has to. "Even if I think you have only said such things because I have not beaten you yet and you do not want me to."

"Can you blame me for trying, sir?" Another smile, one that Marcus tries very hard not to read anything else into. This lust is only his. Not Esca's. Esca is being friendly. He means nothing by it.

Marcus looks away and shakes his head. "I can't. First watch for you, soldier," he adds, absently, and Esca douses the fire and heads off into the night.

Marcus wraps his cloak around himself in the darkness, and his hand drifts to the hilt of the dagger, Esca's gift to him. It is cold tonight, but he is not cold now, and already tomorrow seems better, even if he will step on a thousand twigs and leave a trail a blind man could follow.

* * *

The Votadini do not come the next day, nor the next, and in the intervening time Marcus alternates between staring at the empty trail and practicing the scouting tasks Esca has set him. He thinks he is getting a little better—once Esca did not find him for nearly an hour, and he starting to have a keener eye for tracking—but he is hardly good enough yet. And his skills with a bow, he thinks in frustration, are still practically incompetent. He is worse than useless with this draw.

On the third day they pull the squad together, so that Marcus may tell them what they already know: they need to look elsewhere.

"The Votadini have not come," says Marcus. He can see that none of the other groups have had any luck either.

Esca frowns. "I thought they would use this trail, but perhaps I am mistaken. I advise that we spread our search wider."

Marcus nods his agreement, and they make a plan, once again, and move out.

He stays with Esca, of course, and they are walking through the woods on the other side of the hill when Marcus sees—something. A flash of movement between the trees. Too large to be even the largest deer. A person, then.

Esca goes absolutely still. He must have had a better view, because his lips form near-silent words, his breath hot on Marcus' face. "A hunter. I cannot tell his tribe from his clothes, but if he is hunting here I would guess Selgovae, and most of them are friendly enough to the kind of man I will seem to be to them. But I do not think he would be as friendly to a Roman. If you hide, I can talk to him. I would ask him of the Votadini."

"Do it," Marcus whispers back.

So they slink closer, and closer still, and Marcus ducks down behind a bush, just near enough to see and hear the man who is now strolling through a small clearing, bow slung across his back. He is a Briton, to be sure, with hair and tattoos to match. Esca gives Marcus a quick, tight grin, pulls the hood of his cloak up to hide his shorn, Roman-style hair, and circles around to the other side of the clearing so that he might not be seen with Marcus, before he steps out to greet the man.

Esca holds out his hands, saying something that to Marcus' ear sounds like a friendly greeting, but of course Marcus does not understand the words. The man looks at Esca with some suspicion in his eyes at first, but gives a curt nod and returns a few words in British. Marcus watches as Esca smiles again, looking so open; even if it is a pretense, he admits to himself, he likes this look of happiness in Esca. He imagines Esca is beginning by asking about hunting, or concocting some story as to why he is here, and as he watches, the hunter seems enthralled by Esca's enthusiasm, nodding his head and interjecting some words here and there amidst Esca's patter.

Then Esca's voice goes up, a lilt of curiosity, and he must be asking the question that has brought them there, because Marcus thinks he catches something that sounds like _Votadini_ , even though the accent is very different. And though he cannot understand Esca, he leans in closer to hear better, as if it will make the words make sense. It is an unconscious move on his part. 

And it is his undoing.

As Marcus leans forward, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and a branch beneath him cracks. It is not a loud noise; in most circumstances, one would hardly take any notice of it. But this is not a normal situation.

The man's head snaps up, and his gaze fixes exactly on Marcus' position. At the man's shoulder, just behind him, Esca has turned too, and on his face now is a look of horror, one that the hunter cannot see with his head turned.

The hunter and Esca exchange some quick words, rising in anger and intensity, and Esca finally drops his hand to the hilt of his dagger, with a fierce glare at Marcus' hiding place. He is pretending to be on the hunter's side, Marcus realizes, and Esca wants him to know it.

Then Esca stares harder and calls out something in British, brazen and challenging. The words cannot be for the hunter; they must be for him, but he does not understand them. If Esca wanted him to run he would have said nothing. He would have assured the man he did not hear the noise. Maybe he has just tried to and failed. These words, then, must be Esca asking for Marcus. _Come out_ , he thinks Esca is saying. _Come out. I know you're hiding there_.

Marcus takes a deep breath, stands up, and steps forward.

The hunter stares evenly at him, and Marcus is not sure from the glare whether he has given himself away as Roman by some manner of movement or look, or if the man has not guessed at all—the stare is unreadable. Then the man nods evenly and murmurs a few words in British, and Marcus has no idea what he is saying. What should he say? What should he do? He knows no words to respond with, and if he spoke in Latin, the man would kill him for sure—if it had been all right to say he was a Roman, Esca would have done it, Esca would have called to him in Latin, and he did not. Instead, Esca is still standing, watching Marcus walk forward, his hand on his dagger as all these thoughts run through Marcus' head. Time seems to stand still.

Shortly thereafter, everything happens very, very quickly.

It is so quick that Marcus is not certain exactly what happens; he does not even see the hunter move, or start to move, or indeed anything after the hunter's face shades through suspicion and into outright anger.

But all at once Marcus is down, flat on his back in the clearing with a knee pressing into his chest and a very sharp knife at his throat.

The hunter tilts Marcus' head back for him, and runs his free hand down Marcus' chin, and Marcus remembers, all too vividly, Esca's face when he told him how the Britons also knew of the scars from Roman helmets. The hunter's eyes widen, and he bites out a few words in British. The only one Marcus recognizes sounds very much like _Roman_ , and this is when Marcus realizes he is going to die.

The hunter leans back and nods over at Esca, whose face is marked through with anger and surprise, although probably not for the reasons the hunter thinks. The hunter calls out to Esca. _Would you like to kill this one?_ Marcus imagines that he is asking.

Esca only shrugs.

He had not thought he would die like this. He always thought he would die nobly in battle, fighting for the honor of Rome. He never thought it would happen from his own stupidity and carelessness. He could never have imagined that the last words he would hear, what he is dying for, would be questions snapped at him in a barbarian tongue he does not understand, while a barbarian slits his throat. And Esca will stand by and do nothing. If this is his death, he will face it bravely. He must, even if he has been betrayed. He wonders if this is how his father died with the Eagle.

Esca steps closer when the hunter turns back to Marcus, and he sees that, now that the man's back is turned, Esca is drawing his dagger, trying to save him after all, but slowly, slowly, and he will not be fast enough—

No. He will not die like this. Marcus flexes and surges up, and he can almost reach his own dagger with his fingertips, and he grabs it, and—

The hunter yells and slams Marcus' hand back into the earth with a heavy blow. Pain shoots through Marcus' fingers and the dagger arcs out of his grasp to land next to his head. The bite of the knife at his throat grows sharper still, and this is it. He shuts his eyes—

And then nothing happens.

He opens his eyes again to see that the hunter is staring at the dagger, shock written across his face, as if it were the very last thing he expected to see in Marcus' hands. He recognizes it, Marcus knows, suddenly, but he does not know how he knows this. It is not only that it is a British dagger, for even some Romans own those; from the look on his face the hunter recognizes this very one.

The hunter's shocked gaze shifts to Esca, then, Esca who has dropped his own dagger back into his sheath and has gone white, though Marcus knows not whether it is from tension or fear. Then the hunter chuckles and says something low and mocking, and whatever it is makes Esca grow even paler.

The hunter's tone has turned cruel now, and Marcus wishes more than anything he understood the words.

Then Esca's skin goes blood-red, and his face contorts with fury. Marcus has not seen Esca angry at anyone, not in the month he has been here, and he has hardly ever seen anyone angry like this. This is rage in its purest form. Esca looks as if he would rip the man apart with his bare hands.

The hunter presses his knife into Marcus' throat again.

And Esca has his own dagger out now and is screaming something in British, wild-eyed, as he starts to move toward the hunter. Esca is defending him, Marcus realizes. Perhaps he is saying that the hunter cannot kill both of them. Perhaps he is saying that he will kill the man if he makes another move. Marcus cannot say, but the threat—or whatever it is—works, for the man shifts off him.

The hunter comes to his feet and spits out a few more words—insults, by the sound of them—and then turns and runs into the forest.

Marcus pants and stares up at the sky, feeling the fine trickle of blood at his neck. He can hear only the sound of Esca breathing, now, hoarse and wild and rasping, and he watches Esca's chest heave. Neither of them say anything for several long moments.

"Esca— what—?" He can't even form words. Nothing is making sense yet, his thoughts hazy and still circling about the death that no longer awaits him quite so imminently. "What just happened?"

"Other than that we both almost got ourselves killed?" Esca does not say _you nearly got us killed_ , but Marcus knows that is the truth of it. "That's about it."

"You have to teach me British," Marcus says, fervently, and Esca's face closes off at once, hard as stone.

Esca stares at him. "It wouldn't have helped. You would still have sounded Roman, and he wasn't in a mood to believe you even if you'd been his own brother."

"No," Marcus insists. "Not about that. I mean, to understand what he said to you to enrage you so. I don't even know why he didn't kill me when he could have. It was something about your dagger, wasn't it?"

He comes to his feet, finally, and picks up the dagger from where the hunter had flung it; Esca's eyes track the motion as if it is the only thing worth looking at, and then something in the mask of his face cracks, and behind it Marcus can only see an awful kind of misery, cold and lonely.

"I should never have given you the dagger," Esca says, and his voice is flat.

 _Even though my having it saved my life?_ Marcus wants to ask but dares not. Instead, he pushes as much as he can. "He recognized it."

"Yes."

"He recognized you," Marcus says, but as he says it he knows this can't be right, otherwise the hunter would never have begun talking with Esca as an ally before Marcus gave it all away.

Esca shakes his head. "Not me personally. But once he saw the dagger he knew who I must be, and he made some... assumptions about why I had given it to you when he saw it in your hands." Esca is evading him. Why? What does he have to hide?

"What did he say?"

Esca says nothing.

"What did he say?" Marcus repeats, and then commands it of him. " _Decane_. I order you to tell me what he said."

Esca does not meet his eyes, but he stands straighter and answers, and Marcus wishes that he had not ordered this as soon as Esca speaks.

"He asked—" Esca swallows hard— "if I liked to lie down for you. Sir."

There is no emotion whatsoever in the sentence, and yet Marcus goes hot with twisted arousal, and he is grateful Esca is not looking at him. Oh, how he would like if that were true, his body says, in one wonderful and hideous rush of lust sliding down all through him, leaving him cold and shivering in its wake. No. He cannot have Esca. This is not right, not proper, and now it is even worse, a thing his enemy said to shame him, a thing Esca could not, could never want from him—

"He said he expected no better of us," Esca continues, dully. "He said we were always Roman dogs. Then I drew on him, and I told him—it doesn't matter what I told him, but I convinced him that leaving was a better plan for his continued health than killing you, sir."

Marcus drags his mind back to the current conversation in time to see Esca, having finished speaking, looking up at him. Marcus hopes his face does not show his former thoughts. Then he realizes that Esca has left rather a lot out of his account.

"What did you say to him? And what do you mean _we_?"

Esca exhales hard, a heavy sigh. "It doesn't matter." His voice is still flat.

"Doesn't it?" Marcus curses his own voice, for sounding far more querulous than he intended it to.

Esca's chin tilts up defiantly: finally, a show of emotion. "You told me you didn't care who I was before I joined the army. Did you mean that?"

He gave Esca his word. He cannot very well go back on it.

"I meant it."

"Then it doesn't matter," Esca says, still with defiance in his voice, but with a terrible sadness lurking behind it.

"All right," he says, and Esca gives him a ghost of a grateful smile.

This is not Marcus' affair. He has vowed, it seems, that it is no business of his. But he cannot help wanting to know who has put such pain into Esca's heart, he thinks as they continue on their trek through the forest. Even if Esca will not— could not want him as he wants Esca, he does not want Esca to hurt. And if he ever sees that hunter again, he will kill him.

* * *

They do not talk about the hunter again, but as a day passes, and another, Marcus practices his scouting skills with single-minded intensity, knowing now as he did not quite know before that they will keep him alive. He holds himself still for what he thinks must be hours, while his muscles scream in pain, but he thinks of the knife at his throat and knows he can endure this.

Esca watches him do this and only smiles, saying nothing as he sees this. But Marcus thinks that he must be getting better, for Esca criticizes very little now. His tracking needs work, but his facility with Esca's bow is improving ever so slowly, even if Marcus thinks he will never be able to shoot at the speed needed in combat—for in Esca's mad version of archery, precious time is wasted due to a need to put the arrow through the bow first rather than holding it on the side, and it is the wrong side, and there are so many things alien about it. But he must learn this to live. He has realized this now.

They still have not seen the Votadini, and everything seems silent and empty for miles around, so Marcus feels safe in suggesting different exercise to occupy them as they wait. Besides, he is tired of this, of Esca leading him about. He is the man's commander, after all. And he wants to practice proper fighting; he has not sparred in what feels like an age.

Esca picks that moment to start the conversation for him. "You are doing well in this," he says, smiling. Marcus has the feeling that the compliment should not make him as ridiculously pleased as it does; his heart lightens in his chest. And the way Esca has said it spares him from having to talk about his failure with the hunter, for which he is grateful. But, wait, he realizes—here is Esca leading this conversation, and though his words are sweet to hear, Marcus has just decided he ought reclaim his command now. And that begins with the conversation.

So he looks over at Esca, and tries to make his tone deliberately casual. "Though I was not trained in scouting, I count myself a good soldier, and there are many things I learned to do well."

The conversational opening is left, and Esca takes it. "Oh?" Esca asks, still smiling. 

Marcus nods. "I would spar with you, if you will have it."

"With daggers?" Esca asks and laughs brilliantly, his voice incredulous, and Marcus remembers how Esca took down Igennus, a man Marcus' size at least, as though he had merely been toying with him. Esca does not quite suggest that Marcus would suffer the same ignoble fate, but Marcus is sure it is in his thoughts.

"Or any weapon you like."

"No weapons, then," Esca says. "Wrestling." Marcus gapes at the suggestion—he is built so much more heavily that the contest cannot possibly be equitable—and Esca glares at him in annoyance, seeming to know his opinion by the expression on his face.

"You're... short. For a Briton," Marcus at last manages to say.

Esca is still glaring. "And you're tall for a Roman. What of it? You think I have never fought men larger than I in my life? You think that when we are attacked the enemy are kind enough to arrange themselves by height? I would not be alive if I could not defend myself from anyone by any means available."

It was Esca's suggestion, and Marcus knows he would not have offered it if he did not think he could provide a fair challenge. So he nods his agreement.

"All right. Wrestling it is."

The trees thin out ahead, and the ground is even enough, so when they reach that spot they stop by silent agreement, dropping their gear on the outskirts of the small clearing, and Marcus watches as Esca pulls off his tunic, leaving him bare-chested in the sun, and he swallows to see the sudden expanse of flesh now, when they have spent all these days covered to their wrists and ankles. The previous denial only makes the look of him all the more intriguing, and— no. He cannot think these things.

"I don't want to rip my favorite tunic," Esca explains as he tosses it on the pile.

It seems a reasonable idea, so Marcus follows suit, removing his own tunic and grateful Esca has not suggested taking off the braccae as well; he did not bring a loincloth and feels oddly awkward at the idea of fighting Esca in the Greek style.

He looks up and Esca is standing, arms at his sides, a half-smile on his face.

"Ready?"

The smile on Esca's face sharpens and his eyes gleam. "Take me. If you can."

Oh, how he would like to take Esca. In so many senses of the word. But he cannot, must not think about that now. Or ever. For now, Marcus must win.

He rushes Esca quickly, as soon as the taunting words leave Esca's mouth. If he can get Esca to the ground, none of Esca's agility will matter, and then Marcus, with his greater size and strength, will have him. And if he can take Esca now, by surprise, the fight will be over in almost no time. Marcus exults in the thought that now, finally, he will have something he can do better than Esca, some area in which he will have the upper hand. It is an unkind thought, and it is petty of him; Marcus knows he should be a better man than this, letting his emotions control him, but at the moment he finds he does not care. Let him have this one thing, and he will be confident again, in command of the situation.

His tactic works just as effectively as he hoped. Esca is not quite prepared for him to open with such an aggressive move, Marcus thinks; either that or he was not ready when he spoke, because Esca jumps back, but he does not move fast enough to avoid Marcus. 

So Marcus hits him hard, taking them both to the ground. Esca's back hits the dirt rather unceremoniously, Marcus slams him in the chest, and Esca gives the great undignified wheeze of a man who's just had all the breath knocked out of him. From here it is only too easy to pin him, and there. He has done it. It was perhaps a little unsporting, but was Esca not just telling him battle was unsporting? He is perfectly justified in this.

He grins down at Esca. "Well?" he asks, and he cannot keep the boasting out of his voice, "What do you think of that?"

Esca wheezes at him a few more times, and Marcus is briefly concerned that he has not caught his breath yet, until he realizes—damn him, Esca is _laughing_. "I think that was an excellent start, centurion," he says. Esca's voice is low and teasing, and there is a note of some feeling Marcus cannot identify, but it makes him shiver to hear it. Esca has never spoken like this. "But I do not yield," he adds in the same tone, and his lips part in a smile.

Then Esca pushes up against him, as if he thinks he hasn't lost, as if he thinks somehow that he still has a chance of getting himself out, even with Marcus' full weight on him. He is still laughing, seemingly delighted with the entire situation, as he shoves up and tries to turn, pressing bony hips into Marcus' side.

"You really ought to consider yielding," he says, half in disbelief that Esca hasn't given up. "I've got you right where I want you." He can't quite stop the smirk on his face.

Esca only laughs again and replies in the same secretive tone as before, "Ah, that's where you're wrong."

Esca's skin is warm against his. It would be a joy to do this in other circumstances, Marcus thinks briefly, helplessly, a traitor to his promises, and one slippery thought is all it takes to change every one of his perceptions, and suddenly all he can feel is Esca's body pressed against his. So close. He is already holding him down; it would be so easy to just lean in and _take_ —

Marcus realizes, suddenly, that the desire curling through him now is about to become very obvious to Esca very quickly, especially if Marcus' thoughts remain on this path and if Esca manages to turn himself in the way he is apparently trying to. The sudden terror all down Marcus' nerves does nothing to calm his incipient arousal. Esca cannot find this out. He cannot. And yet Marcus is growing harder and harder still. Esca smiles at him, and for one brief moment of fear and pleasure he forgets entirely that they are even supposed to be wrestling, and he slides, his grip slackening.

This inattention must have been what Esca was waiting for, because Esca makes one final surge up against him, with what feels like all of his strength behind it, and it is perfectly timed to catch Marcus unaware. And so Esca rises up, and pushes, and pushes, and they roll as he flips Marcus hard, shoving Marcus now into the dirt, as Marcus did to him.

When Marcus' lust-fogged head clears just enough for him to figure out what is going on, he is lying on his back and Esca is perched on his chest, smiling down at him, holding Marcus' wrists together and down against the earth above Marcus' head with both of his hands. Marcus' first thought is that this is no kind of wrestling hold and he could throw Esca off in an instant. Then Esca smiles down at him, a smile with too many teeth. There is something strangely knowing in his bright, laughing eyes, and the rest of Marcus' thoughts flee.

"That was a fine effort, as I said," Esca murmurs. "But it's much better this way, don't you think?"

Esca leans closer, pressing Marcus' wrists harder against the ground, and Marcus can see now that Esca's eyes are starting to go dark—odd, in the sunshine. And of course it is not better this way; that is a ridiculous thing for Esca to say. Esca cannot even hold him. He could push Esca off in an instant. He should. This is absurd and disgraceful; it is as if the man is trying to mock him.

"I don't think so," Marcus says. The question is almost too obvious—why in the world would he think this better than him winning?—but he asks it anyway. "Why is this better?"

Infuriating as ever, Esca only grins again, and Marcus flexes his wrists up against Esca's grasp, only to be stopped by Esca's hands. He could break Esca's grip right now. He wants to be free. He wants to be in charge again. Of course he wants that.

Esca whispers the reply like he is giving up a secret. "Because, Aquila, I'm in control."

And everything Marcus thought he knew about himself burns away in one hot rush of pure need.

Until this moment, Marcus would have sworn he understood desire. Not that there was much to understand about it, he'd thought. Either you wanted to fuck someone or you didn't, but if you did the basic notion was simple. Easy. Men or women, slaves or whores—it didn't matter which. You dictated the terms, you took your pleasure and you were done with it. Exactly how things should work.

Esca's hands are on his wrists and he doesn't want Esca to let go. He doesn't want to fight his way free. Esca is holding him down and Marcus Flavius Aquila is more aroused now than he has ever been by anything else in his entire life. Esca could do whatever he wanted to him right now, anything, and Marcus wouldn't be able to stop it. He doesn't want to stop it.

He should. He has to push Esca away right now. If what he wanted before was wrong, this is— unimaginable. Horrific. There are no words. No, that is not right—there are words, but none of them should ever describe him. He cannot do this. He cannot let this happen. And Esca is still smiling at him like nothing is wrong, like everything is fine, with that little smirk of pleasure in his own victory and cleverness.

Marcus feels his face flush hot and he hopes Esca will take it for anger and not shame.

"Let me up," he says, roughly, and before giving Esca a chance to respond he throws him, and Esca goes off him in a surprised, awkward sprawl of limbs. Marcus comes to his feet, only a little unsteadily. "You've had your fun, pretending you could best me, but remember your place, eh, soldier?" The words are harsh, rasping his throat; they have to be, so Esca cannot hear his voice trembling.

Esca stands. Dirt is smeared across his body and there is pain in his eyes, but he nods and salutes. "Sir," he says, his voice sounding tight in his chest. "It won't happen again."

Marcus cannot look at Esca, not now, not like this. And worse, he is even still aroused, and it will be worse yet to have Esca staring at him, to have him _knowing_ what he has done to him— no. He must never know this. He cannot.

"I have to piss," he lies, heading toward the safety of the empty, darkened forest. "Watch my gear." He does not know if Esca will believe him, but he does not care. Let him think what he likes. Why should Marcus care for the opinions of an insubordinate Briton? But he must have a few moments alone with his thoughts, or— he does not know what will happen.

Once Esca is well out of sight, Marcus stops and leans his back against a tree, digging his palms into the rough bark as if it is the only thing keeping him stable. The sensation is a distraction, which is good. He needs one of those, because he cannot bear his thoughts. The image of Esca, laughing above him, is seared into his mind.

He imagines he can feel Esca's fingertips, still, against his wrists, points of warmth where he was holding him. What if Esca were to press harder, he wonders. What if Esca were to cause him pain, exactly thus? What if he were to leave bruises, signs anyone could see and read and know? The thought is terrifying and awful and entirely, helplessly arousing. _No_. Marcus palms at his cock once, heavily, angrily, willing it to go down. He will not touch himself and think of this. This is wrong.

He thought he knew how this worked. It is not as though he is some blushing maiden or inexperienced youth, after all. He has had slaves practically since he knew what his cock was for, and thought himself quite satisfied by them as well as the occasional visits to brothels while on leave. And he always counted himself fortunate, more moral than some of his fellow soldiers, for he was never overly distracted by their charms, never enamored of some particular dancing-girl or pretty boy. He fucked the ones he liked, and he left. Lust, like all things, came in moderation for him, exactly as appropriate.

Marcus wraps his hand around his arm, clenching the very spot Esca's fingers had lain upon, and begins to consider the possibility that maybe he is not as well-acquainted with what lust is as he thought. This is overwhelming. This is uncontrollable. And, oh, the irony of that—

He remembers Esca's words about control and starts to shake. He didn't know this. How could he know? How could he not have known? He had always known what he wanted, always just taken it. He cannot want to submit. He cannot want to suffer. No good Roman does this. He has seen the cinaedi, who scratch their heads and wear their tunics loose-belted, and dance about as though they are proud, as though they want to be seen, as though they want people to know of their filthy perversions. He is not one of them. He cannot be.

But no one has ever pushed him. No one ever tried. Not until now. It seems that Esca, laughing and holding him down, Esca and all his infuriating insubordination and fierce pride, like no one he has ever known—Esca was what it took. And Esca does not even want him, of course. He is certain of that. Esca's reaction to the hunter's words were perfectly clear. Esca must have been joking just now, a joke that Marcus took in the worst possible way.

Marcus will have to ignore this. It is the only possible course of action, for so many reasons. And perhaps this is all a mistake, a hideous aberration. Yes, that is most likely. It was only a passing thought, Marcus tells himself, firmly. That is all it was. Certainly he will never allow any man to fuck him, to force himself on him. There is no need to consider it again. There, he is in control of himself.

He stands there until he no longer pictures Esca smiling down at him, even as he wishes—and tries not to wish—that reality could be as he desires it. These horrible thoughts will not bother him again. He will not let it happen.


	2. Chapter 2

They do not talk about it. Marcus is profoundly grateful.

In fact, they do not talk about much of anything. Esca talks only when he has to, and his tone is low and respectful, perfectly subordinate. It is nothing like he had been. He seems remote now, closed-off, and Marcus fears that he has in some way offended Esca, by reacting so badly to that strange British jest of his. He would be offended if Esca had done the same to him, and surely Esca meant nothing by his behavior in the first place. It cannot have been intended the way Marcus took it; Esca would never have said such a thing to him, not to mean... that. No one would dare. Then he curses himself inwardly, for here he is thinking of Esca's feelings, Esca's opinion of him. It should not matter. And if this has made Esca less insolent, so much the better.

He prefers silence to insolence. Of course he does.

That night he wraps himself in his cloak and feels very, very alone.

Marcus' spirits are lifted the next morning when the rest of the squad appears, trickling in by pairs. It is good to have other company, for clearly there is only so much time being alone with Esca that he ought to have, lest he begin inventing more of these strange ideas about him.

The men gather in a circle, and Esca opens his mouth to speak, but Marcus knows what he was going to say—is it not obvious that there are signs of a trail this way? He would not have noticed them five days ago, but he sees now they are so plain that he wonders how he could ever have missed them. Furthermore, it is a fresh trail; perhaps only some of the Votadini have passed through. If they are lucky, there will be more to catch.

"The trail is over there," Marcus says. "It has to be here. And here we will wait for the rest of the Votadini, for as you can see, they have been by. And if we do not see them—well, the rendezvous is soon, and perhaps one of the other squads will have."

Esca closes his mouth and nods. "As you have ordered, sir." The tone is perfectly respectful, a model of proper behavior. But his face is absolute stone, a mask even Marcus cannot see behind. And he will not let himself wonder. This should not be his business.

Carantos, towering over even Marcus, looks thoughtful and then slowly nods. He has been the friendliest of Esca's men, and it is good that he accepts this. But the other men do not move.

"Split up and keep watch," Marcus says. "You do not all have to be on watch at once; work it out amongst yourselves which three of you have the first duties. I will take the first rotation with you. Esca will take the second. We camp further back in the woods." This way he will not have to look at him.

The others still do not move, and their glances slide over to Esca. Esca nods, curtly, as though he is giving an order, and he says something in British. The men stare at Esca just as they stared at Marcus, and now Esca looks as though he is pleading a case, like a great orator, his hands outstretched.

Whatever he said must have been convincing, for Paetinus, Gavo and Ancus head off toward the trail, and Carantos, Sintorix and Galerus in the opposite direction, where the bushes are. And though Marcus ordered Esca to make a camp for the night, Esca stands there, staring at him. His face is closed-off, his gaze cool.

"What did you say?" Marcus asks. He cannot quite keep the anger from curling through his voice. He is in command here, and how is it that the men listen to Esca first, that the men respect him so?

It is as if Esca does not hear the ire in his words, because he does not rise to meet it. His voice is quiet. "I told them to trust you. I told them I'd... instructed you, sir. That I was confident in your skills. They will follow you now. And when we get back, the word will spread through the century, because I have told them this, and you will have an easier time of it with the men."

"They listen to you. They obey you."

"Yes, they listen to me." Esca's eyes are still cold. "There are more oaths in the world than Roman ones."

_Who are you?_ he wants to ask. But Esca will not answer that, not now, not ever. Marcus swore not to ask about his past. "And they will obey me?" he asks, instead.

Esca nods and then pulls himself up to attention and salutes. "We will perform what has been ordered and we are ready for all orders." The words are exceedingly familiar, of course; they are the oath that soldiers swear at morning muster, and they have been engraved into Marcus' mind from ten years of speaking them every day. There is no emotion in Esca's voice, but he has said the words, and that is what is important.

It is the sort of unquestioning obedience that ought to please him in any soldier, and it especially ought to please him that Esca is now respecting his authority, given his earlier behavior. He ignores the strange hollow feeling in his chest. This is the way things are supposed to be. This is the chain of command.

"Very good, soldier," he says.

Esca turns and heads off into the forest, following the other three men, and Marcus breathes a sigh of relief as he goes to take position.

Nothing happens, of course. Marcus is beginning to believe the Votadini do not even exist.

A few hours later, when the other men come to swap places with them, he can tell they are arriving. Carantos, thinking himself silent, scuffs his feet once upon the grass, and he inhales a tiny breath, almost too quiet to hear, but now Marcus is listening for it. He wouldn't have noticed before, but now it seems as though the man practically lumbered in.

This is why he does not flinch when a huge hand wraps around his leg.

Marcus only turns his head and grins at the man, his huge bulk outlined in the afternoon sun. "Here to replace me, soldier?" He keeps his voice pitched low.

Carantos nods and smiles, sliding down into the dirt next to him. "Thought I might surprise you, sir."

"Again?" Marcus shakes his head ruefully. "I will not fall for that trick again."

"So Esca said," Carantos says, still grinning back, and Marcus feels an odd twist in his gut, to know that Esca was talking about him to the others, and he wants desperately to know what Esca was saying about him. What Esca really thinks about him. Whether Esca likes him. No. That is madness.

"Did he?"

Another nod. "He did, although I thought I might try anyway and see for myself. But I know now that he was right." The tone is very friendly; it is good to know that he has the esteem of his men, after all. And word will spread.

He sits at the makeshift camp for a long while, chatting with the men and eating some of the duck that Galerus shot for them. And truly they seem to respect him more; whatever Esca told them must have been encouraging. Or perhaps Esca's words had little to do with it. It might merely be because he is serving here with them, and sharing the watches with them, and he suspects from idle words here and there, confirming Esca's statements earlier, that none of their other commanders really did this, as incredible as it seems to him.

It will take more time than this, he knows, but it is a start. And it is worth more than a thousand meaningless opinions of Esca's, Esca who has not smiled today, who looked at him as though he would never smile at him again. He does not care how the man feels about him as long as he behaves. He does not.

Only later, while he is staring at the stars trying to sleep, does he wonder: will the men disobey him and follow Esca, if Esca does not agree with an order? Marcus cannot ask this question of anyone. He has an uneasy feeling he will not like the answer.

Marcus pushes his face into his cloak and shuts his eyes. He does not picture Esca, he tells himself. He is not thinking about Esca smiling and laughing. He counts as many numbers as he can, only numbers, until he falls asleep.

* * *

When the Votadini finally arrive, it is a disappointment. Even Marcus can tell that the people who are now riding leisurely down the trail are not warriors. They do not carry spears, nor shields, nor weapons of any sort, other than the odd dagger or two, and their slow pack-horses are laden with belongings, brightly-colored bundles of fabric. They do not ride quickly with purpose, but rather they wander, calling out to each other in British—from the tone of it, they are carrying on friendly conversation, as if they are not concerned that anyone might be looking for them, or watching them. These people cannot intend anyone any harm. They cannot intend Rome harm, and that is what is important.

Somehow Esca has ended up on watch with him today, even though he still holds himself apart and looks at Marcus with cold, cold eyes. Nonetheless, Esca does his duty, tapping him on the shoulder. Marcus knows enough now not to move, only to flick his gaze over and watch Esca's lips form soundless words.

"They're traders."

All this, for that? They have been out here days, and now it seems the Votadini are no threat of any sort. There is no honor in this. How will he win back his name if all he has to give are a thousand reports saying that today he saw a group of British traders ride down a trail?

Marcus feels filled, suddenly, with twisted frustration, and it is still worse because he must lie here silently and cannot even move. Esca, for his part, has moved a little forward among the ground-cover, and he squints as though he is listening intently to the conversations, trying to commit them to memory. All down the path, the other members of the squad are doing the same thing, Marcus knows. Together they will be able to tell him, afterwards, what the Votadini have said.

At least the Votadini are a small group, he thinks; it does not take them long at all to ride through. The last ones laugh and call out something to each other, raucously, sounding almost glad—

Whatever it is makes Esca stiffen—anger? fear?—and Marcus watches the color drain from Esca's face.

Before he can think not to, that neither he nor Esca will appreciate the closeness, he puts his hand on Esca's arm, slowly, noiselessly, feeling the rough weave of the tunic under his fingertips, but Esca does not even turn to him.

"Later," Esca whispers.

They lie there for long moments, until the traders disappear past the horizon, until the sound of them is long gone, and then Esca slides back away from their vantage-point. Marcus follows him to their makeshift camp, where the rest of the men have already gathered—they were stationed at earlier points of the trail, and so could leave their watches sooner.

"Traders," Galerus says, instantly, the same thing Esca had said at first, and the rest of the men nod.

"They're going to the Selgovae, sir," Carantos volunteers. "The man riding the big roan was talking about seeing his kin among them. No mention of Roman territory, or fighting, or anything of that sort."

Marcus frowns. "Is it not possible that this is a deceit, that they only pretend to be traders to trick us?" It is a thing he might do, were he them.

A few of the men look horrified—perhaps this violates some sort of guest-right?—but Esca's face is grim in agreement. Ah, he already knew he liked the way Esca thinks, Marcus observes with pleasure, and then inwardly curses his thoughts. He does not need to make this any harder on himself, to think up extra compliments for the man who now dislikes him.

"Anything is possible if the Caledonii are coming south again," Esca says, sounding as though he wants to stab someone with the words. "That is what the last ones said. They said that they were grateful to be traveling a little, so that they might avoid the Caledonii."

The other men's faces turn dark too, and Marcus knows this must be serious indeed. He has only the vaguest notion of who the Caledonii are; Agricola fought them long ago, they live far to the north, and they are, to hear everyone tell it, the fiercest of warriors. And they more than anyone else in this land hate Rome with a passion. What more need he know? He cannot help but secretly rejoice in it; now, perhaps, he might have a chance to fight.

"Did they say where the Caledonii might be?"

Esca shakes his head no and steps back, behind him, not looking at him anymore.

"All right," Marcus says, calling out the words as an order. "It is near enough to the rendezvous day that we should make our way back to the rest of the century, and then to the fort, to give them the news of the Caledonii. And then they will do with that what they will."

"Nothing," comes a whisper from behind. It is Esca. "They never do anything about the Caledonii. Oh, no one can prove they are threats, they say. Oh, they never threaten Romans, they haven't in years—"

Esca's voice has fire in it once more, and something within Marcus thrills to hear it, even as he wonders what has gotten into him, even as he knows the insubordinate tone should be punished.

Marcus turns. "Excuse me, soldier?"

Esca's face goes blank. "Nothing, sir."

And if this is how it will be between them, the Fates must have willed it so.

They walk, and walk, and make camp, and walk, and it is another day before they come upon another squad, this one led by Camulorix, with Laetinianus at his heels. The optio leans on his staff and puffs out his chest as though he is in charge, but even Marcus can tell, just looking at him, that all the men are humoring him. And even if Esca will hate him, at least he will not treat him like that. And from the way Laetinianus is glaring at the rest of the squad, it seems like this assignment has gone ill for him.

But Laetinianus smiles at Marcus, as though he is grateful to see a friendly face, and salutes properly. Marcus makes himself smile back. "Optio."

"Ah, it is good to see you, sir!" The words tread the edge of obsequiousness. Marcus decides to ignore that.

"What of the men? Did you find anything of the Votadini?" For perhaps they saw them too, or found the promised warriors—

Laetinianus shakes his head for no. "Nothing, centurion."

"We did," Marcus says, and summarizes their findings.

The optio looks less impressed at the mention of the Caledonii than most of the men did—and certainly far less than Esca did—but he nods thoughtfully. "And we return to report of this?"

"We do."

"Very good, sir."

They walk side-by-side in silence for a good while, Laetinianus heaving and using his staff to help him up and down the ever-present slopes and across the rough ground. Finally they come to a level path, and Marcus finds that they two have fallen into rear-guard; Esca and Camulorix, the decani, are leading the group. He decides this is good enough.

And Laetinianus tilts his head at him, and looks pleased. The words that come out of him now sound inviting, as if the man wishes to be friendly with him. "So, I had a question for you, centurion."

Marcus nods briskly. There is no harm in being friendly in return with the man, is there? He is the optio, after all, even if the men hate him.

"Yes?"

Laetinianus' mouth parts, a smile that is oddly conspiratorial, as if he wishes them to share some private jest, and he raises his eyebrows. " _Ar' ou miseis autous?_ "

Marcus has hardly heard anyone speak Greek in these past months, and is at first awed by the sudden novelty of it. He is not posted in the East anymore, after all, and so the men here do not speak it; none know it except officers, educated Romans, and clearly his Italian-born optio must have learned it as well. He does not even think about what the words mean at first, so busy is he trying to figure out why the man is addressing him in Greek at all—

Then the meaning of the words filters into his mind. 

Marcus stops dead.

The reason for the language becomes terribly, horribly clear, and he understands exactly why all the men despise Laetinianus. Did he do this with the last centurion? Did they laugh together and talk about how they hated the filthy barbarians so? Did they think that if they spoke Greek none would know their contempt?

This cannot stand. They are Roman soldiers, they are his men, and he will not be a party to this.

Hot rage floods him. "What did you say?"

Laetinianus is still half-smiling, looking for all the world as though he expects Marcus to agree with him. " _Tous anthrôpous_ ," he clarifies, gesturing at the soldiers. As though he might be talking about some other group of men. As though lack of clarity is the problem here.

"Oh, I understood you perfectly well, soldier," he says, feeling the ice of command crackle all through his voice. "I was only wondering why you chose to say it in Greek. Was there some particular reason? Some turn of phrase you felt could not be expressed in Latin eloquently enough for your liking? I find I am curious to know."

Watching Laetinianus turn white does nothing to assuage the anger. "Sir, I—"

"We speak Latin in this century," Marcus snaps, "and if you have something to say to me, you will say it in Latin. Is this clear?"

Laetinianus swallows but does not quite back down. "The men speak British among themselves—"

Is he such an ass that he thinks anyone speaking another language is no doubt casting aspersions about him? Given that he is clearly willing to do the same himself, if he behaves as though he truly thinks such things about the soldiers, it is no wonder that some of them might even be insulting him. But this is not the point.

"They are here because they speak British," Marcus retorts. "They would be no good to Rome, else. I myself am grateful they could tell me the words of the Votadini. And I plan to learn some of the language, while I am here. And, why, pray tell me, are you questioning my orders?"

In front of them, the men have stopped walking. They are facing forward, pretending not to listen, but Marcus knows they are hanging on every word. This is something new to them.

Laetinianus is chalk-white. "I obey, centurion."

"Good." Marcus allows himself a smile that is not at all nice. "Now, would you care to repeat yourself in Latin? If we are having a friendly conversation, after all, surely this question of yours is something you can ask before all the men?" He swings his arm wide to indicate them. "You know, the men you were talking about. Or perhaps you have forgotten your words already? Shall I remind you of them?"

The man's eyes dart back and forth, and he licks his lips in fear. "Sir, I believe I misspoke, earlier. I have no questions."

"Very good."

"Sir."

Laetinianus exhales in relief, and Marcus answers his question anyway. He owes the rest of the men this much. He owes this man nothing.

"I don't hate the men. They are skilled at their duties, they have taught me to perform them as well, and one of them saved my very life the other day. He could have let me die, if he hated me as much as you seem to think I should hate him, but he did not." Marcus is not ashamed to admit this, though he knows it was his own fault he nearly died—after all, the optio will hardly ask him how it happened, now. "I care not for how you feel about them, nor for how Viridio felt, but I am glad to command them."

Laetinianus' face is red now. Marcus does not care about that either, certainly; Laetinianus deserved every word of that. Perhaps Laetinianus will even treat the men more kindly if he sees that Marcus will not support him in mocking them. Marcus turns to start walking again, and he thinks that he can see some of the soldiers smiling to themselves. He shouldn't care whether one of them is Esca.

* * *

The rest of their return to the garrison proceeds without incident; Laetinianus stonily says nothing, even as they meet up with more and more of the men. Esca says nothing, either—although, as he is tens of men away at the front, Marcus does not really have an excuse to speak to him—but every time Marcus sees him his eyes are shining bright. Marcus has lost one man's goodwill for the sake of others'—or, if he is being honest, truly for one other, he supposes. Why bother denying that?

He knows that he ought not to have done this. If he had stopped, if he had thought instead of letting his anger get the better of him, there might have been a way to do this without shaming his optio before the men, some other way that would improve Laetinianus' behavior. But he was angry, and he did not think, and it has gotten him this situation. Marcus ought to endorse Laetinianus as his second-in-command, of course, to present the two of them as fully in control here. A centurion's optio should be a man he can support wholeheartedly. It would certainly make this posting easier.

However, Laetinianus is an ass. This does complicate matters.

Even as he is deep in his thoughts, Marcus finds he is happy to see the garrison once again, as they approach it. He can feel himself start to relax already, thinking of the baths. He hasn't had a proper bath in days, of course, and it will be good to get all the dirt finally off with a good round of oil and strigils. A soak in the warm water will do him some good. He can relax, clear his head, and not have to think about... so many things that he should not consider. Perhaps this will do him some good, bring him back to himself, remind him of proper behavior. No, he tells himself, firmly, he will not even think of that, for considering proper behavior could all too easily lead to considering that which is not.

But first, even before he goes to the baths, he should make his report to the tribune. News of the Caledonii is surely important.

Therefore, as soon as they have reached the camp, Marcus leaves the men to his optio's more or less capable care and heads immediately toward the headquarters. He only pauses to hand his effects to one of the men, for there is no sense carrying all his field gear with him. The rest can wait. He has come back with news, and he must tell the tribune.

He bursts in and hastily salutes Suilius, who regards him from the other side of the desk with some surprise, and he tells him about the Caledonii. It takes Marcus a little longer than he hoped, for he is panting slightly from the exertion. But the message, surely, that is the important thing? It must be.

Suilius stares at him in silence after Marcus finishes telling him of how the Votadini are not a threat and the Caledonii are. The silence is awkward and stretches on for far too long, and Marcus can't figure out what he has done wrong. He is reporting as ordered, after all.

Marcus shifts his weight from foot to foot and finally has to say something, anything. "Sir?"

Suilius' eyes narrow, and he looks Marcus up and down. Marcus looks at himself and finally, finally realizes what the man is seeing. Marcus is standing here, covered in dirt from the trail, wearing British braccae and one of their bizarre, long-sleeved, effeminate tunics, with a British knife hanging from his belt. He must look like a tribesman himself. Marcus feels his face flush hot with shame, and his fingers clench around the edges of the embarrassing sleeves. He forgot. Somehow he has forgotten what he must look like. Any Roman would think him beyond strange. Perhaps with his height they might even take him for a Briton. An uncomfortable twinge passes through Marcus at that thought; he ought to hate the very idea of it, but he is not immediately repelled. He does not know why.

"Centurion," the tribune says, dryly. "I appreciate your... zeal... in delivering your report in a timely fashion. But in the future, unless the barbarians are imminently invading, it would behoove you to report to me in at least proper civilized clothing."

He should not be ashamed. He should not. He is dressed like his men, after all, and was he not just defending their honor to his optio? He does not think himself better than they. He knows them to be capable soldiers, no matter what clothes they wear. But knowing that does not stop him from feeling awful heat burn across him as he hears the tribune's reprimand.

Marcus firms his face and is the perfect model of a soldier, at least to anyone looking from the outside. "Sir." He salutes yet again. "I will do as you have ordered."

Suilius waves a lazy hand, half-returning the salute, and Marcus stands there waiting for him to order them back to the field, to put them on the trail of the Caledonii. But the man only picks up a report. Perhaps Esca was right after all, Marcus thinks, and feels an irritation that he knows is only a fraction of what the men must feel. He is dismissed, ignored, here in the worst cohort in the empire, after they had lain in the woods for days to bring news no one cares to act on. His century is truly a joke to them.

"You may go, centurion," Suilius says, looking up sternly over the edge of a tablet. His nose wrinkles a little. "I suggest you go to the baths."

He is sure his face is even redder—the man is insulting his very cleanliness now—but he nods and turns away, heading out as ordered.

He understands why the men hate their Roman commanders now, Marcus thinks, as he makes his way to the bath complex. He might if he were them. He doesn't even understand why they would still serve Rome. If the tribune treated him like that—and he is already a Roman—just for commanding them, for dressing as they do, the treatment of the Britons in the army must be horrible indeed.

Why are they all here? Why do they stay? Marcus cannot answer either question.

The bath does nothing to improve his mood; the rest of the day is a waste, after Laetinianus wanders off in search of wine. Marcus finds he cannot blame the man for wanting to be drunk. That night Esca smiles from him from across the camp. Not that he was looking, or hoping for this. But Esca says nothing to him, and Marcus puts his head in his hands and curses. He does not know what he would have wanted Esca to say.

The next morning does not promise to be any better, at any rate. Marcus gets up especially early to struggle into a mail-shirt for the morning assembly. Ordinarily most commanders count someone in uniform if he is girded with gladius and dagger, no matter what he wears with it—but after yesterday, Marcus feels that appearing before Suilius dressed as if he is to go to war is the only way to prove to the man that he is still Roman.

Dawn finds him still in his tent, holding his own Roman dagger—the one of the she-wolf and twins—in his hand, considering it against Esca's, still nestled in his belt. He does not want to wear his, something within him cries. He wants to wear Esca's, to let Rome see, as the tribes saw, that they are something to each other. Even if he does not know what it meant to the hunter—or for that matter, what it means to Esca—Marcus knows it means something to him. It is a sign of Esca's respect, at least. But as he stares at it and sighs, he knows he cannot wear it. Today he must be the perfect Roman. And while that is a thing he has always wanted, always strived to be, he has an uncomfortable feeling that what he wants is changing.

He shoves his old dagger on his belt instead and leaves quickly, pinning his cloak as he runs; he will be late now if he does not hurry.

Suilius stalks up and down the line of centurions with annoyance in his every movement, but he looks at Marcus and his uniform with a grudging sort of approval, and Marcus knows he has behaved rightly in this.

The orders do not include anything about the Votadini or the Caledonii; the scouts are to have a free day or two while they wait for more intelligence to come in, more news from other forts. That is what Suilius says, but Marcus cannot shake the feeling that the man is merely being dismissive: if he truly cared about them, if he cared about following up on the news they had brought, he would have the men out in the field again today. Maybe it will be tomorrow.

Eonus grins companionably at Marcus as the assembly breaks up, though his behavior has been more subdued since he found out who Marcus' father had been. It is nothing that Marcus is not used to. He has met men who were much worse to him, and at least Eonus wants to be his friend. It is a little odd, since the man does outrank him, but Marcus can deal with that.

They walk together back through the camp, chatting of this thing and that, and Marcus is grateful to have this man to converse with. A Roman who is not Laetinianus is truly a welcome face. And it is good to talk to a Roman, after all; being in the field so long just with Britons for company was making him feel strange in a way he could not quite identify.

"You've dressed up, I see," he says, indicating Marcus' armor with raised eyebrows.

Marcus nods. "I did." He does not want to go into his reasons, and thankfully Eonus does not ask. "If we are to have a free day, though, I think I will change out of it," he adds, surprising himself a little with the words. "I do not want to weigh myself down for no reason." A year ago he would not have said that. Five years ago he would not have. Certainly not ten. But he is beginning to see now that Rome is more than any armor, if even Britons can serve her willingly. And it is not, he tells himself, not that he misses the warmer local clothing. Or wearing Esca's dagger.

"So how is your command?" Eonus asks. "Are you getting along with your Britons?"

At least he didn't ask about Laetinianus. Marcus nods again. "I am. They serve me well," he says, remembering already how Esca saved his life, how he has already taught him so many things, how the men are beginning to respect him thanks to Esca. But he does not need to wax poetically about Esca's virtues to anyone, he tells himself. Then the thought occurs that perhaps Eonus could answer one of the nagging questions he has, since there are probably Britons as well in Eonus' century, or at least he is acquainted with Marcus'. "Is it a problem commanding Britons in Britannia? They are in their native land, after all." Everyone remembers Germania. "Will it happen that they might—" he swallows— "refuse to fight, or revolt?"

But Eonus only grins and claps him on the shoulder. "Ah, Aquila, you won't have that problem. We have the Wall here, after all, and the men are not quite local—they are from the south of it, for the most part. The few from the north are so civilized that you have nothing to worry about. I have never had a head for all these barbarian tribal politics, but the tribes here are all different, or enemies of the southern ones. Your men will fight whoever you tell them to fight."

"And they won't fight each other?" He knows some other units have had this problem, where one Gaulish tribe turned out to be the enemy of some other, and the empire recruited from both.

Eonus is still smiling reassuringly. "Not at all, Aquila. Yours, I think I heard once, are all even mostly the same tribe, or allies of it, though which tribe it was escapes me now. They are all barbarians anyway," he adds, and it shocks Marcus to hear the word after so much time with his men. The Britons do not speak so of each other. "I do not think it matters which particular one they are, eh?"

Marcus makes himself smile and nod in return. "That is good to hear."

"And how is Laetinianus?"

He cannot quite stop the expression of distaste that passes over his face, and he is sure Eonus has marked it. But he will not speak ill of his optio to his superior, not without cause, not without having been asked to. "My optio... serves me, sir," he manages, finding he cannot even bring himself to say a word like _well_ at the end of the sentence.

But Eonus laughs anyway, not offended by what he sees. "It is all right. You can tell me what you truly think. It's not like I haven't met the man."

Marcus remembers now what Eonus said, the day he came here, about Laetinianus, and a thought occurs to him. He could— could he really? Perhaps it is possible.

He stops walking and finds he is standing awkwardly now, but he asks his question anyway. "When I first arrived here, you told me I did not have to have him as optio. I was wondering how I might choose another."

For all that Marcus has been in the army, the true legions, for ten years, he knows little of how this works. His own promotion to optio happened unceremoniously during the revolts led by that Jew, Bar Kokhba. The former optio in his century of the Tenth, Aetius, had been a tall, lanky, laughing man whom everyone had liked, and he always had a kind word for all of them. He had known every word to every obscene drinking-song and diced with the best of them. And Marcus had happened to be next to him the day he took a sword-thrust to the gut. The centurion had pried the ring off Aetius' finger and pushed it in Marcus' fist without even looking at him. He had been there. He had been alive. His commander had not been overly choosy.

Still, there must be some way for promotions to happen in a relatively peaceful place. He does not just want to wait for Laetinianus to die, after all.

Eonus' face now is strangely reluctant—he has stopped too, and is looking at Marcus as if he does not quite want to speak—and Marcus realizes what this must mean.

"I can't, can I," Marcus says, and he feels much sadder than he ought to. "It was a thing you said to lift my spirits about this command, I suppose."

The other centurion looks sympathetic, but his face is furrowed still with reticence. "It is not exactly untrue," he says, slowly. "But you have been in the army so long, and you an equestrian yourself; you must know how it is with the politics of command." Marcus is briefly grateful that Eonus doesn't ask why he has worked his way up from ordinary soldier instead of becoming an officer as he could have; he would prefer not to have to explain his disgrace again. "It is only that you are so new here," he continues. "Although you could ask for another optio, it is... expected that you prove yourself with what has been given to you. To do otherwise might be seen as..."

_Weak_ , Marcus thinks, but does not say. "As a sign that I was unfit," he offers.

Eonus nods in agreement. "Besides, demoting Laetinianus, or transferring him—he might make trouble, for you if not for someone else. But it does not have to last forever," he puts in, sounding brighter now. "Once it has been shown that you can command your men, I am sure we can make reassignments. There are a few Romans elsewhere in the cohort, or even men from the legions willing to take a lateral transfer if there's a promotion in it. I am certain you would be glad to have one of those men. A true Roman soldier, indeed!"

But as Eonus says the words Marcus realizes something about them is all wrong, and he frowns. That is not what he wanted at all, with his half-formed thoughts about new optiones. He did not want just another Roman, randomly handed him, decided for him. An optio is one's chosen man, after all. It is what the word means. And he wants to make his choice himself. He wants— oh, by Pollux, he might as well admit it, even just to himself. He wants Esca.

Esca would be perfect. He is a fine soldier, he clearly has the unquestioning respect of the men—which is much more than anyone can say for Laetinianus—and Marcus... trusts him. No matter what his other, more complicated feelings are. He would be proud to have Esca as his optio.

"Can I not choose my own man? From among my men?" he asks, and his voice is more hesitant than he had thought it would be.

Eonus laughs, a huge, roaring laugh, as though Marcus has made a brilliant joke, when in fact he was not jesting. "Are you truly asking—?" Then he sees the look on Marcus' face. "By Hercules, you are serious! No, no," he says, wiping the tears out of his eyes, "that will not work at all, not in the slightest."

Marcus was chosen by his own centurion, when he became optio. This makes no sense. "But in the legions—"

"In the legions, Aquila," Eonus says, more severely now, "everyone is Roman. It is different here. We cannot very well trust the painted barbarians to command themselves, can we? No, they must take orders from Romans. They must be kept on a tight rein. They are still savages, after all."

He remembers Esca's words from a few days ago, when he'd asked about Roman commanders. _We are worse than animals_ , Esca had said, and now he knows what Esca meant.

"I can't even imagine what old Suilius would think," Eonus continues, starting to laugh again, "if you showed up at headquarters with one of your painted warriors in tow, and him with an optio's staff! Seriously, Aquila, if you have any aspirations to have a career elsewhere—like in Egypt, you had said you wanted, hmm?—those postings do not come often, and you must take care in how you act here. Especially toward the locals. They are your men, but you cannot forget they are not Romans."

He remembers now mentioning to Eonus how his desire had been a posting in Egypt, because it was far less complicated than explaining the truth of his father and the Eagle and how he had indeed asked for Britannia. Still, Marcus is not without ambition, and is every honest soldier's goal not such a posting in the Egyptian legions?

Marcus firms up his face. He will not let the disappointment show. It was a mad fancy, anyway, a whim, no more than that. He does not even know for sure if Esca is the best-qualified man in the century, even if it were possible; it is probably only that he knows the man best. And he will not promote the man just because he finds him... attractive. That is only asking for trouble, and more insubordination. Has he forgotten so quickly that the man is infuriating? What reason has he to think Esca would fit well with him?

"I will not forget that," Marcus says, quietly.

"Anyway," Eonus adds, "do you think anyone in your century can read good Latin, to be able to give orders? An optio has to be able to read, Aquila, or have you forgotten? I will wager that none of your Britons can."

He had forgotten that, in his... excitement at the idea. Of course Esca cannot read. How in the world would Esca have learned to read? Some of his men, the ones who are more Romanized, might have learned as children, but Esca is clearly born of the tribes. He would not know how to read. Why would he? No, there is no possible way this could happen, and Marcus pushes the fantasies of Esca at his side, as his optio, commanding the men with him, far out of his mind.

"You are right," he agrees. "Forgive me; it was a silly idea."

"Ah, there is nothing to forgive," Eonus says, smiling. They are at one of the camp's small crossroads now, where they must part and go to their separate centuries. "Good day, Aquila."

"Thank you," Marcus replies. "I will see you tomorrow, I suppose."

"Tomorrow, then."

As he turns to walk down to the sixth, he feels very alone. Eonus' words, Eonus' reaction, have made Marcus himself feel not quite Roman, not quite proper. A true Roman would never have entertained those ideas he was having about Esca as optio. His own thoughts embarrass him now, and he wishes he hadn't had them, hadn't said them. A true Roman would not have. Marcus doesn't fit. It is subtle, he knows, but seeing Eonus now is beginning to throw it into relief, and the contrasts grow more and more stark. Who is he? Who will he become? He only ever wanted to be a soldier, to serve Rome, to do his family honor. What is this command doing to him?

(He will not think, he is not thinking now about the other things that have been done to him, the things there are no words for, oh, Esca's hands holding him down, no, he will never think about that, never again—)

The first thing he does in his tent, without even thinking about it, is to slide Esca's dagger back onto his belt. He feels an odd sense of defiance once he realizes what he has done, and he does not quite know why he feels it, or who he feels it towards. Eonus was only speaking the truth, after all, and Marcus is a Roman, of course, and why should having a Roman optio make him so uncomfortable? But he wants— he wants—

He puts his hand on the hilt of Esca's dagger, tracing the intricate patterns with his fingertips. This is not any of the choices he wishes he could have, but it is the closest he will ever get to them.

* * *

Outside his tent, the men laugh and talk, enjoying their day of rest. Why should they not? They have worked hard in the field. Marcus loses himself in reports for the rest of the day. He will learn this land. He will learn everything of the missions. He goes through the old reports now, now that the names of the tribes are not just meaningless words on papyrus. He must learn something of the Votadini and the Caledonii. Why would Esca consider them a threat and Suilius not?

Besides, if good solid work can prevent him from pondering any one of a number of unsettling things—the amount of which, Marcus notes, seems to be growing day by day—so much the better.

He reads all day, getting up only for meals and the usual ablutions. Even when he closes his eyes in the baths and sinks into the water, he sees only lines on papyrus, scratchings on wax. He will learn this land. He must.

When he comes back from the baths, it is late in the day, and Marcus sees that four of the men have come into his tent, to dice at the far end. It is their common area, too—that is why the centurion's tent is double-sized. He politely averts his eyes when money changes hands after one of the throws. Gambling is of course forbidden now, since it is not Saturnalia, but Marcus has never met another soldier who cared about that.

"Hey, centurion," one of the men calls out, cheerfully, his voice a little slurred with drink, his British accent very strong. Marcus doesn't know the man's name yet. "Come on over!"

Marcus smiles and waves the offer away. "I thank you, but I will not dice. I enjoy my pay too much to lose it."

"You don't have to play, sir," someone else says, his Latin much better than the first man's, and Marcus knows him to be Paetinus. "You can just watch while Camulorix takes all our money," he adds, and the whole circle of men bursts into laughter. Marcus smiles to hear it.

"You can beat him if you catch him cheating," the first man adds, still laughing, even as the dice come up against him.

Camulorix smirks as he slides a whole sestertius into his palm. "You'd have to catch me, Inam."

"No," says Carantos, the final man in the game. Marcus learned his name quickly; the man is huge, taller than almost anyone in the century except Crimos. It also helps to have spent those days with him in the forest. "I have a better idea," he says, sounding thoughtful. "I had heard that the centurion might want to learn some words of British, yes?"

Marcus notes the man carefully does not mention where he might have heard that, for it can only be from overhearing his speech to Laetinianus the other day. Marcus nods. "This is true. It has been in my mind lately that it would serve me well to learn British."

"Well," Carantos says, picking up the dice, "we can teach you some. We can certainly dice and talk at the same time."

So Marcus sits down with them, and just like that, the conversation switches into British. Marcus has always considered himself to have a good memory for languages, and it is easy to pick up words as they point at things and say what they are called. _Man. Hand_. _Head_. _Ground_. _Sword._ _Dagger_. They have to use some Latin to tell him the sorts of words that are a little more useful but are hard to explain using only objects in the tent: _battle_ , _horse_ , _shield_ , _warrior_.

Marcus repeats each of these words, again and again, and though they smile—probably to hear his accent—they look at him as though he is doing a good job, and Marcus feels ridiculously pleased.

"Truly, your accent is not so bad," says Paetinus, sounding impressed. "If you learned more of the language, we might be able to pass you off as someone from the south. Trinovantes or Iceni, maybe."

Marcus smiles and keeps reciting what they tell him. The pronunciation is not so difficult as he had thought it might be.

"Nouns are all very well and good," he says, once he is certain he has those words in his mind, "but can you not tell me some sentences? I am eager to learn how I might hold a conversation."

So he learns how to say hail and farewell, to bid someone a good day, to ask how one fares and to answer it, to thank someone, and to say his own name and inquire about someone else's. It is the sort of thing one might learn in any language, and Marcus is pleased with his progress. 

It is hard to tell, not knowing much about British, but they seem to like to put the verb in the middle, and this is the hardest thing to learn, since they do not put it properly at the end like Latin and Greek usually do. It is a maddening thing. What good does a verb do if he does not know what someone does a thing _to_? He makes mistakes, and more mistakes, but he remains determined.

"I think that is probably enough for a first lesson, sir," Paetinus says, once it seems as though Camulorix has won all the coin the men have on them. "We would be happy to teach you more tomorrow, or some other day," he adds, as Inam and Camulorix rise and leave the tent. It is only Paetinus and Carantos left now.

"Thank you," Marcus says, in British, just to see if he can, and Paetinus smiles. He switches back to Latin and continues, "That would be most welcome. I might ask Esca, if he is willing, to teach me some as well. Do you think he would, if I asked him?" He remembers that Esca had sounded amenable to that, the day he met him.

"Oh, you want to practice your British with Esca?" Carantos cuts in, and his mouth has curved into a strange sort of grin, almost as if he thinks there is something funny about it.

Marcus frowns, perplexed. "Should I not?"

"No, no, you should," Carantos assures him, still smiling. "It is only that if you are going to talk to Esca we could teach you more to say to him, a kind word or two."

"To impress him with what you've learned, eh?" Paetinus adds.

"All right." Marcus nods. He does want to impress Esca, not that he will admit that to the men. And then a thought occurs to him: they could make him say anything and he would not know, because he does not know the language. "But if it turns out it is an inappropriate thing to say, I will have you on barley rations for three days," he says, sternly. There, that would be a suitable punishment. No one wants to eat barley; it is for animals.

Carantos nods and, for some strange reason, looks as though he is trying not to smile now. "Very well."

"What will you have me tell him, then?"

Carantos looks briefly thoughtful. "Tell him—" and he says a short sentence in British. Whatever it is makes Paetinus chuckle a little.

"You're certain this is not inappropriate?" Marcus asks, again. It does not sound like any of the words he has heard the men mutter during practice bouts when the wooden swords have slipped past their guards and caught them hard under the edge of the padding; it is therefore probably not obscene. It could, however, still be something he doesn't want to repeat.

"Not at all," Carantos says, and he continues to smile. "I swear, sir, there's not a word there I wouldn't say in front of my own mother."

Paetinus nods in agreement, vigorously. "Why would we want barley rations?"

"It is a compliment," Carantos says, adding, with a wheedling note in his voice, "I am sure that Esca will like to hear it from you."

It is probably a bit of praise, then, Marcus decides. Perhaps they are having him tell Esca that he is a fine soldier. There is no harm in that. He has already said he would punish them if it turns out to be a trick, and they cannot want that. So this is certainly safe enough.

"Tell me how to say it again," he orders.

It is short, only a few words long, but it is a full sentence, and he struggles with each of the words in turn. One of them might be the word for _you,_ or something akin to it, because the language is not so alien from Latin, but the rest of it is a mystery to him. Well, if he tells it to Esca, Esca will probably tell him what it means. He hopes so, anyway.

Carantos nods after the fifth repetition. "I think you have it, sir."

"Good," Marcus says. "Thank you for the instruction."

Carantos grins, stands, and actually salutes him. "It has been a pleasure, centurion."

The two leave, and Marcus is once again alone in the tents with his reports. It is getting dark now, so he lights a lamp and keeps reading, turning over the British words in his mind as he does, committing them to memory. There are so many things he must learn now, but he will do them all, and he will do them well. If he treats his men well, if he learns their land and their language, is this not his mission as a soldier? Is this not how he serves Rome? But Rome does not want this of him, he knows. Rome wants him to hold himself apart, to mock the barbarians. He will not do that. He must find his own path to honor. He will help the empire hold her borders, here in the wilds, and however he does it, that will have to be enough.

Night falls and the camp quiets; the men have all gone to sleep now, or are about to. Marcus finishes reading the last line of a report providing no useful information whatsoever on the Caledonii and ponders heading to his bed himself. Then out of the corner of his eye, he sees a shadow shift and fall across the open flap of his tent, but it comes no closer. He has a visitor. Almost a visitor. Whoever it is shows no signs of coming in.

"Enter," Marcus calls out. He does not know if it is one of his superiors or one of his own men, so he keeps his tone neutral as he does so.

The man who steps inside is Esca.

Esca gives him a very small smile, no more than a twitch of his mouth in the dim candlelight, and Marcus feels something within himself twist in an odd nervous anticipation.

"Centurion." His voice is not quite formal, but the grin is gone as quickly as it appeared.

Marcus gestures at the empty chair on the other side of the desk. "Sit, if you like. What can I do for you this evening?"

Esca settles himself down awkwardly, jerkily, with none of his usual grace. How strange it is to see the man without it. Is something wrong? Is he hurt? No, Marcus realizes, Esca is only nervous. What could make him nervous?

"It is nothing of import," Esca says, his words tumbling hastily together as he looks at the reports still strewn across Marcus' desk. "I did not mean to interrupt your work."

Marcus gives Esca a smile of his own, one intended to reassure. "You did not; I was done before I saw you."

"That is good, then." Esca shifts his weight in the chair, breathes in and out, and then locks his eyes with Marcus'. It seems that once Esca has made up his mind to do a thing, he does it with every scrap of intensity he can muster, and Marcus almost cannot bear his gaze. "I came to thank you. About— about yesterday."

Marcus sees now why Esca might have wanted to hold this conversation in private. "About what I said to Laetinianus?" he asks, although he knows perfectly well that must be why.

Esca nods, and he almost looks... happy? "About that, yes. It was... kind of you." It is only years and years of Roman conditioning—excessive emotion is unseemly, of course—that prevents Marcus' face from rearranging itself into the delirious grin he would want it to have. And, oh, even by flickering lamp-light Esca's face is so beautiful, the strange lines of him melding together, and Marcus is not thinking about that. He is not picturing moving nearer, running his hand across Esca's cheekbone and down his jaw, to feel the angles of him for himself. He is not.

"Ah, don't thank me," Marcus says, trying to push the rest of his feelings away with his modesty intact. "There is no need to, truly. You were being ill-treated, or at least ill-named, and I am certain that anyone else would have done the same—"

"No." Esca interrupts him, and his voice is quiet, but firm like iron, sharp as a sword. "They wouldn't have, and I know you know that. Viridio would have joined in with him; he would probably have started it. You were expected to, as a fellow Roman." Esca's mouth quirks in almost a grimace; it is not a pleasant expression.

Marcus just looks at him. "I told you I wasn't like the rest of them." It's all he can think to say, and it seems that statement becomes truer and truer by the day. He isn't like them.

"I know," Esca says, "and so I thank you for it, if I may. For being who you are."

He cannot think of anything to say, and so they sit in silence for a few moments, looking at each other, with Esca almost smiling at him. And Marcus cannot abide that either; he feels as though all his secrets might pick that moment to slip out of him, in this quiet. Esca might like him better now, but that does not mean Esca will ever want him. Not as he wants Esca.

"While you are here," Marcus says, as finally the idea of a comparatively safe topic occurs to him, "I was thinking perhaps I should give you your dagger back. We are not in the field anymore, after all." He drops his hand to his belt, pulling the dagger in its sheath off, and setting it on the table. He finds that he is loath to do this.

But Esca shakes his head for no, putting up his palms as if to ward it off, though he smiles again. "We will have other missions," he says, softly, "where it would help you to look British. I want you to keep holding onto it for me. I see now that I was right to put it in your hands." 

Esca leans forward to push the dagger across the desk, back toward Marcus, just as Marcus reaches for it, and their fingers brush. A wild, dangerous line of fire runs all down through Marcus at the touch, and he is seized with the conflicting impulses: both to jerk away, and to lean closer and wrap his hand around Esca's. He swallows hard and does neither. 

"Thank you," Marcus says, holding his voice steady with every bit of will within him.

Esca inclines his head. "You deserve it."

There is another awkward silence, and this time Marcus' scramble to fill it is quickly ended; he can at least think of something related to say, while they are on the subject of him needing to look as a Briton would.

"The men have taught me some words of British," he offers. "I was wondering if you might teach me more of it, sometime."

One of Esca's eyebrows raises and his smile grows broader as he leans forward, interested. "Oh? What have you learned to say?"

Marcus coughs, swallows, and attempts to say the word he thinks means _hail_.

"That is a good start." Esca only smiles more, as if he is truly pleased that Marcus has learned this, and the smile makes Marcus glow. "What else can you say?"

So Marcus goes through the rest of the words he has learned, carefully, and Esca only corrects him on his pronunciation a little. Esca speaks slowly and asks him how he fares, and Marcus answers, and he answers what his name is and asks Esca, and then Esca asks him a question he hasn't heard, and the most he can figure out is that it might have _what_ in it, or something very similar.

"Pardon?" Marcus frowns and somehow feels ashamed to admit his own ignorance. "I have not learned those words."

"Oh! Sorry," Esca says, instantly, as if he has noted Marcus' response and is wanting to make him feel better. Marcus cannot decide whether the solicitude should make him feel better or worse. "I asked you which tribe you came from."

"And what do I say to that?"

"You?" Esca gives him a long, considering look. "If you were speaking the truth, you would say you are Roman, like so—" and the word sounds more or less like _Romanus_ said in a British accent, of course— "but what you might say around here depends on who we are being this month, should we have to talk to anyone. It is usually the Novantae or the Selgovae. Sometimes the Damnonii." And Esca gives him all those words in a British pronunciation.

"Paetinus told me I should say I was of the Iceni or Trinovantes," Marcus puts in.

Esca laughs at that. "He would. And though it might explain the accent, it would not explain why you are far from home, eh?"

He does have a point. Well, Marcus can try to improve his accent as much as he can. In the meantime he must practice by speaking it, mustn't he?

"Which tribe do you come from?" he asks Esca, in British, giving the same question back.

He watches as Esca's face closes off at the words. It is subtle, so subtle. Perhaps Esca thinks he does not notice.

"It depends what month it is, as I said," Esca says, in Latin, and he laughs as though he is making a joke of it, though his eyes have gone empty and hollow, frightening to behold. "Because it is May, hmm, why, perhaps this month we will all be from the Cantiaci, although then we would need a very good excuse to be up here."

Marcus chuckles too, now that he sees Esca wants him to see only the joke, though he worries for the man. Who is he? Who was he? Why will he not say?

"So we would," he agrees, trying to sound cheerful.

"Was there anything else you wanted to say?" Esca asks, looking only the tiniest bit uncomfortable, covering it well already, moving as if to get up, as if to leave. "I assume they taught you how to bid someone a good evening."

He nods. "They did." Though perhaps now that last phrase he learned might lift Esca's spirits; Carantos did say it was a compliment. "And also, they taught me, so that I might tell you—"

He recites the last sentence; he was very careful about learning it, so he is certain he has it right.

Esca's reaction is extraordinary. His face breaks into the widest, most pleased grin Marcus has ever seen, and it warms him, deep in his heart, to see it. Then Esca drops his eyes, and it is hard to tell in the candlelight, but he thinks Esca might be blushing. Blushing? This is strange, but whatever he's said, at least it wasn't an insult.

"Thank you," Esca says, quietly, in British, smiling like it's the best thing anyone has ever said to him. And then he switches to Latin. "That is a very... sweet thing for you to learn to say to me."

Sweet? What did he say? The uncomfortable realization is beginning to dawn on Marcus that perhaps there were things other than insults he ought to have worried about.

And then Esca sees the expression of utter puzzlement that has no doubt made its way onto Marcus' face, and the smile falters and disappears as quickly as it came. There is only a strange sort of sadness left. "Did they— they didn't happen to tell you what it meant, when they taught you to say that, did they? You have no idea what you said."

Marcus shakes his head. "They said it was a compliment, and Carantos said you would like to hear it from me."

" _Carantos_ said—?" Esca gives a short, sharp laugh, a sound of disbelief. "I think I see what has happened. I'm very sorry, sir. I'll speak to him."

"What did I say?" Marcus wonders, bewildered. "I told him I'd punish him if it was something inappropriate, and he said it was perfectly fine." But that wasn't quite what he'd said, was it? Marcus casts his mind back, trying to remember the exact words—

Esca's words, when he speaks, are slow and halting. "It is not that the words are insulting, but I... am not certain that you wanted to say them to me. You just told me," he says, hesitantly, as if he does not quite want to admit to this, "that I had pretty eyes."

And now it is Marcus' turn to blush. His skin is so hot, burning, and he wants to get away, to run, to never face this, and at the same time he wants to say _yes, Esca, you do_ , to say that and more, and truly mean it, now that he knows what he is saying. But he does none of these things.

"I understand," he says, finally, because what else can he say? "Thank you for informing me. I am sorry if I have made you uncomfortable." But he is not, not at all, and he would say it again, he would—

Esca rises, unsteadily, making his way to the edge of the tent. "No apologies are necessary, centurion. I can see now that it was a mistake," he says, and his voice, tight and controlled, gives nothing away of his feelings. Perhaps he was only amused earlier, seeing the joke, and perhaps he was even in on it; now, surely, he must be horrified that his commander might prey on him so. "By the way, sir, can I ask exactly what punishment you threatened Carantos with?"

"Barley rations," Marcus replies, confused. "Why do you ask?"

"Ah," Esca says, sounding strangely enlightened, but he is too far into the darkness for Marcus to see his face. "That explains it. Good night, centurion."

"Good night," Marcus echoes.

He spends half the night awake, and he is not thinking about it. He should not think about the way Esca's face looked when he told him those words, what it could mean. Certainly not. Esca said it was a mistake. Esca does not want this. And even if he did, even if he ever could, there is still military discipline to think of; the man is after all his subordinate. Marcus will not take advantage of his rank.

The next day there are still no orders, and Marcus returns early enough from headquarters that a few of the the men are still eating, or possibly eating again. He passes Sintorix, who is scraping out the last mouthfuls from a dish of gruel that looks and smells like... barley? He has not ordered anyone punished for anything, much less Sintorix. Why is he eating wretched barley, of all things? Maybe it is something Laetinianus has ordered.

Laetinanus is a little farther down the mass of men, closer to Marcus' tent—and, amazingly, he is not drunk yet, though he does badly conceal a glare as he sees Marcus. "Sir?"

"Optio," Marcus says, "I was only wondering what you have punished the men for, without asking me."

"Punished?" His optio blinks in confusion. "I have not punished them at all, sir, and I wouldn't without your leave; what do you mean?"

Marcus gestures at Sintorix. "Some of them are eating barley, and I have not ordered them put on barley rations."

"Ah, that!" Laetinianus seems to take his meaning now. His face lifts, and then he smiles in a way that looks especially mean. Perhaps all of his smiles look mean. "They're Britons, sir. They all like it. They'd eat barley every day and be happy. The barbarians that they are, they even make drinks out of the stuff." His nose wrinkles.

Suddenly yesterday makes far too much sense.

"Oh," Marcus says, glumly.

"If you want to punish them," Laetinianus says, with a certain amount of relish, "they don't mind the public shaming either, unless it's actually cold that day. They are not civilized in any way, you see, as I've been trying to tell you. The only thing that works on them is the vine-staff, sir. A good beating, that's what they need."

"Thank you," Marcus replies, voice strained. Walking into his tent, he sits down at his desk and drops his head into his hands. The gods are not favoring him, and truly he will suffer for it.

* * *

There are things that a proper amount of modesty makes it difficult to discuss. For all that Marcus is proud of his men, he does indeed remember Eonus' exhortation that they are not Romans. And at no time is he more acutely aware of this than here, now, at night in the garrison.

The men are fucking each other.

As he lies awake in his cot, he finds the noise hard to ignore, for it is not as if any of them are particularly subtle. Or quiet.

Oh, it is not as though this does not happen in the army; Marcus is not young, nor naive, and he knows what sorts of things soldiers do, from loneliness and camaraderie both. But one cannot simply do this as the first of choices. One must make excuses—say, you are alone in the woods and there are no women around. Or it is the night before the fighting is due to start, and being aware of your mortality, you might look for companionship before you go to the battle-line. And, no, Marcus remembers, he did not note this behavior in the field, when they were in fact alone in the woods. They were all busy then, on watch, so when would they have had the time?

And here there are no excuses. By Pollux, they are at the garrison; it is not as if there are not women! There are any number of slaves, and of course there are whores. There are always whores, and even on a soldier's pay they can be had. There is no reason that the men should persist in sleeping with each other. It is unchaste and bad for discipline, he thinks, automatically, although that doesn't quite apply here; they are none of them citizens, so there is no disgrace committed, and they all hold the same rank, so there are no issues regarding the chain of command. 

The only person who shouldn't be sleeping with the men in the century is him, and he is not and will not, so it will not be an issue. Nevertheless, he feels somehow it is a behavior he ought to discourage. He imagines addressing the men at morning assembly: "Soldiers, I order you not to fuck each other!" No, no, that will not do. He needs to come up with something better. He remembers once reading the works of a historian, who asserted that the Britons—or perhaps the Gauls, was it?—happily fucked men, whoever they liked, caring only of pleasure, completely shameless and improper. Marcus had thought at the time that the man was exaggerating, but he is beginning to believe it was the unvarnished truth.

From the next tent over, someone groans, and there is the heavy, unmistakable noise of flesh on flesh. Marcus throws his arm over his face and tries to think of something else. Tactics. Poetry. Grievous wounds. Anything.

The thought that insinuates itself into his mind is, of course, the least helpful thought he could have in these circumstances: he wonders if any of them are fucking Esca.

As soon as he thinks that, naturally, the images fill his mind. He can picture, or he thinks he can picture, what it might look like. Esca's long, lean body, lying pale and exposed for the taking, Esca on his hands and knees, anonymous men pressing into him, and Esca's eyes falling shut in just such a manner as he concentrates on feeling, on taking it all—

Marcus feels the familiar heat of arousal begin to sweep through him, to build and gather, and before he can think about he has himself in hand. Thoughts are only thoughts, after all; it is actions that the gods mind, that Rome minds. He may think whatever he likes. Only he will know if he thinks about Esca as he touches himself, and now that Marcus has had the idea he has to do it. There is no way to stop. He feels like a man possessed by Bacchus.

He imagines Esca smiling, moaning, lost in the pleasure as well, and he strokes his cock slowly, letting it build. If he will have Esca only in his mind, he will at least take his time with this. Ah, here, Esca is perfect, being taken a thousand different ways, writhing in pleasure.

But as he thinks about it, he realizes that, no, this is an imperfect fantasy, for it is not true. Distracted, his hand slows on himself as he ponders this. Esca would not submit. Esca would not suffer. He has met the man, after all, and he is sure that Esca would not allow that to happen to him. He is far too proud to let himself be taken. No, it is far more likely that Esca would be the active one.

Need blazes hot within Marcus as he slides his palm fiercely against his cock, his hips jerking as he thrusts into his clenched fist. Yes, that is perfect now, he knows, absolutely right. Esca would of course be fucking someone. Esca's hands would dig roughly into some man's hips, Esca's cock would press against him, not even in him yet, and he would no doubt whisper harsh words, words of control—

_You're mine, Marcus_ , Esca would say, and his voice would be dark and intense with passion. _I can do whatever I want to you_ —

—and suddenly the fantasy that has fought its way through Marcus' defenses is the very one he has pushed away, that he has tried to stop since the day Esca held him down. Marcus is not thinking about this now. He cannot. This is wrong, this is wrong, he cannot think it, but it is too late, the thought is there and he cannot stop it—

—and in his twisted imaginings it is he whom Esca is holding down, opening, pushing into, and he cannot move, he can only lie there and be taken and he loves it, he loves it more than anything. Esca's hands hold him down firmly, but there is a kindness in it, and Marcus yearns for both of them together, the caring mixed with the restraint. He wants to give in and let go, to let Esca take charge, to submit as Esca eases into him. _Ah, how tight you are_ , Esca would say, laughing, amazed. _You've waited all your life for this, for me, and look how much you want me to do this. I know how much you like it. I know you_. And Esca begins to fuck him, gently at first, but then harder—

Marcus' hand squeezes the base of his cock, half in panic, but yet something perverse and strange within him refuses to let him cease touching himself. Let him at least slow down and please, please, let him think of something else. He will not spend himself while having these horrible, wrong thoughts. He will not.

—and it is even worse then, because the fantasy shifts, and now he is on his knees in front of Esca, and it is so terrible that he cannot even picture it, he should not be able to envision it, except he can, which makes the entire thing a thousand times worse even as it pushes him nearer to his release faster than anything he can ever remember thinking about. _You want this_ , Esca would tell him, smiling down at him. _Open your mouth for me_. And the hand on the back of Marcus' neck, the one pulling him closer, is tender in its inexorable pressure. And he does want it, he does, he wants to kneel, he wants to take Esca into his mouth—

The very thought of doing so, frightening as it is, is all it takes, and Marcus can't stop himself now. He's coming hard, helplessly, over his hand, over his stomach, biting his lip so that he might at least be silent. His eyes fall shut, and all he can see is Esca.

That, Marcus thinks as the bliss dissipates into fear and shame, was a very bad idea.

Now that he has unwisely let himself entertain these ideas, they will be with him, torturing him with images of how he must not act. He must not think about Esca again, not like this. If that means he must not touch himself, well, he can live without that. He just needs to... not think about this. Ever again. This is not who he is. This is not who he can be.

He lies awake half the night.

* * *

Marcus spends the next few days not really aware of what is going on around him; all of his effort is turned inwards, making sure to present himself as a proper soldier, a proper Roman, trying to clear his mind of... those thoughts. It is a good thing they do not have a mission, he thinks, even as his first full month here ends and it comes already to the Kalends of June. He is not sure he would be competent in the state he is in, and he would certainly rather not have anyone killed or injured because he cannot purge thoughts of Esca from his mind.

But eventually he has himself under control once again, after a few hazy days of blankness during which he finds as many excuses as he can to hide from others, to bury himself in reports, for fear that his expression must show his thoughts. And especially he must hide from Esca. He must avoid Esca above all. It is silly, but he has the notion that the man can read him with one look and know all of what he tries to keep hidden. And Esca must never know this.

He comes back to himself, finally, as he realizes Carantos is in front of him stammering a hasty apology, and he realizes Esca must have put the man up to it. Esca probably went to him and told him that he did not feel this way about Marcus. He probably told him that Carantos shouldn't have taught him this, that the compliment that even now Marcus is secretly glad to have given was unwelcome.

"—and I am terribly sorry," Carantos is saying, staring at the ground. "I fear I... misinterpreted events, sir, and I taught you to say something inappropriate after all. I am here to receive whatever punishment you deem fit."

Carantos' shoulders hunch, the huge man humbled, as if he truly thinks Marcus will beat him for this. Punishment might perhaps be called for, but if Laetinianus spoke truly, the staff is the only tool he has with the Britons, and he will not beat a man merely for teaching him a compliment. Besides, how will he explain it? He cannot very well tell everyone that he is beating a soldier because the man inadvertently had him make advances upon another. It would be ridiculous. No, the punishment does not fit the offense.

"I believe I said barley rations," Marcus says, and he watches Carantos' lips twitch as he fights back a smile.

"You did, sir."

"Soldier." Marcus draws the address out, questioningly. "Would it happen to be the case that you like eating barley?"

Carantos breaks out into a full-fledged smile at that, ducking his head and looking only a little guilty. He has been found out. "I don't mind it, sir. Not like you Romans do."

Marcus pretends to deliberate for a while longer. "Then I will just accept your apology and consider the matter settled. Though this does not mean I do not want to learn British," he adds, "if you or anyone else will teach it to me. In the future, though, I would like to know what all the words mean before you insist that I should say them to anyone." He manages to keep his face still as he says this; he will not blush to remember it. A man is always in control of his feelings, of course.

"Understood." Carantos salutes and leaves, and Marcus returns to his reports.

He puts the men through drills and more drills, and he himself spends some time improving his archery, even going so far as to acquire a native bow. He ignores the sidelong looks he gets from other Romans; if he is to look like a native, he must shoot like one. And he finds that he understands more and more of the British that the men are using amongst each other, day by day.

It is three days before the Nones when their second mission comes to them, and at the assembly Marcus dutifully takes down the orders on wax. It seems that further information from other scouts has come to light on the Votadini, and Marcus' idle guess is the one his commanders share: those weren't traders.

"Were they traders," Suilius intones, sternly eyeing Marcus as though he has somehow personally failed in not presenting the right information, "we would have expected them by now in the villages of the Selgovae." The man stumbles over the name, giving it a pronunciation that Marcus has already learned is obnoxiously Roman in character. "And they are not; our intelligence is that the Votadini have not arrived in peace. Therefore, we can only assume that the Votadini are coming here to mount an attack."

Marcus takes down the details. They are to be posted relatively near the garrison—in contrast to their first mission, they will be within a day's march away—and there will be no roving over the land looking for people who may not exist. They are to sit and watch, and wait for the Votadini, and to come back in three days or if they see them, whichever is sooner. It sounds reasonable.

"Note, please," Suilius continues, "that scouts should not engage with the enemy, in any manner whatsoever. Avoid all the barbarians, even if one of the British soldiers insists they are not the tribe we are looking for." He gives a thin smile. "There is no point in taking chances by alerting anyone who then might discover we know of the Votadini's movements. Oh, your men will tell you each clan has different enemies and some tribes would not tell the Votadini of us, but who would trust the allegiances of a barbarian?"

His glare there is aimed at Marcus once again, and Marcus swallows and stands straighter, trying to communicate with his posture alone that he is a Roman who trusts only Romans, as it should be.

"Stay hidden," Suilius says, finally, "and may the gods bless you."

With that having been said, the assembly breaks up, and they are all off to give the orders to their own centuries.

"Good luck with your painted barbarians," Eonus tells him, laughing.

Marcus forces a grin and wishes him well.

Coming up on the sixth, he does not see Laetinianus, the man who should have been there to greet him, to take the orders from him. Instead, there is Esca waiting at the edge of the century, and Marcus gives him a nod and hopes his face does not somehow reflect the fact that the man haunts his fantasies.

Esca only smiles back and gestures at Marcus' writing-tablet. "Orders."

Marcus nods and tries pronouncing the word back in British, to see if he remembers it. "Orders, indeed."

"That's the word. I had a feeling something was about to happen," Esca says, in answer to the question Marcus hasn't asked, the question of why it is Esca here and not his optio. "Your optio is... fortifying himself, shall we say, for the morning."

Drinking already? Marcus tries not to sigh, but he is grateful that someone at least cares to meet him when he has brought back formal orders. "Hopefully he is not too far gone; the tribune thinks you were right to be suspicious about the Votadini's motives." _I was right_ , he could have said, for Esca had only concurred with him, after all, but somehow he wants to compliment the man.

And Esca smiles at him. Marcus certainly should not say pleasing things to him just to see that look on his face. This was a coincidence. Of course.

He flips the tablet open; he's not quite certain why he does it, because after all the words will mean nothing to Esca. But he wants to show them off, to prove he has orders. He is about to close the tablet again when Esca steps closer and his eyes focus on the writing in the wax. Marcus watches in surprise as Esca's lips part, as he whispers the words to himself, as everyone does who is reading.

"Well," says Esca after a bit, looking up at Marcus and completely ignoring the look of utter surprise that must be writ across his face, "that sounds reasonable to me. Three days will go by quickly enough."

Marcus finds that language has entirely deserted him.

"I can suggest a dispersion of the century if you like, sir," Esca continues, and when Marcus still says nothing, he must take the silence as assent, because he keeps talking. "As we are, or will be, so close to the garrison, and since your orders say there will be other centuries posted, it would be easier to stay concentrated, perhaps splitting up by two squads rather than one." Esca stops and finally takes note of Marcus' expression. "Is there a problem?"

"You— you—" Marcus finally manages a few words. "You can read. How is it that you can read?" It makes no sense; when would Esca have ever learned?

Esca bursts out laughing. "Oh, that is the problem? Of course I can read. Did you think we were all unlettered barbarians here? That we were too stupid to learn?"

As that was in fact more or less what Marcus was told, he isn't quite sure what to say, and so he stumbles his way through a reply. "I— no, of course, I would never think you stupid, but how— why—"

Esca shrugs. "It was important. So I learned." But there is an odd tone in his voice, one that suggests there is some other story there, that Esca is not being quite as forthcoming with the truth as he could be. It is another part of the man's past that he cannot inquire into, he supposes.

"Oh."

The idea weaves its way back into Marcus' thoughts: Esca is literate. Esca could be his optio after all. He smiles as he thinks it, but even as it occurs to him he knows this cannot happen. An optio must be able to read, of course, but, as he learned from Eonus, there are other factors at work, and Esca will never be a native Roman no matter how well he can read Latin. Marcus would never be allowed to promote him.

Esca tilts his head curiously, watching Marcus' face. "Does this trouble you, centurion?"

"No, no," Marcus says hastily. "I was only thinking of... other things. Go and ready the men, then; you've seen the orders. And try to get Laetinianus upright and on his feet if you can find him, would you?"

"Sir." Esca salutes and turns back to the century, while Marcus heads to his own tent to gather his things.

It only comes to him as he is rolling his gear up into a bundle with his cloak that Esca was acting exactly as he would expect an optio to act, and the order he just gave Esca is one he truly ought to have given to his optio. His optio ought to have met him, read the orders, and made everything happen, but instead it was Esca. He is sure Esca is executing the orders perfectly, and he longs for this to be official, and not for the double-pay to go to a hideous man who will only spend the rest of it on wine. But this is how life works. This is how Rome works. And what he has now, that will have to be good enough.

* * *

"I've been wondering about something."

Without a fire—for of course they will not have a fire now, not on this mission—it is too dark to make out the finer details of Esca's expression, but his voice is that of a man who is honestly curious. Inquisitive, even, and it is a tone Marcus has rarely heard from the man. This intrigues him.

Marcus has paired them up with Camulorix' squad, as Esca suggested, meaning that Laetinianus is with them too, but Laetinianus is not here, now; it is only Marcus and Esca alone in the small camp, with everyone else on watch or... whatever else they could possibly be doing. He is not sure. Marcus almost suspects Esca's men of trying to get them alone together, because surely they too ought to have reasons to be here now. But this is a ridiculous thought, and certainly only a product of his fevered, wishful imaginings. Why would the men do any such thing? No, it is surely a coincidence.

But, he thinks secretly, treasuring the thought of it, if the solitude means that Esca is inclined to talk to him more, that is so much the better. He enjoys the man's company.

Marcus looks levelly back at Esca and holds his hands out, trying carefully to look inviting in a perfectly casual way. "Ask, then."

"I was curious," Esca says, "about what great service your family must have done for Rome regarding the Eagles." 

His tone is perfectly innocent, even bland, as if he doesn't know what he's asking. How can he not know? How can he ask this? Is this a taunt? Is he paying him back for that "compliment" from earlier? He must be; he must have been more offended than Marcus realized, and this, this is how he will have his revenge. Esca is the sort of man who knows all the goings-on at camp. Someone, some Roman, would have been only too happy to tell Esca the sordid details of his commander's disgrace. 

Every muscle in Marcus' body seems to tense in one massive spasm of surprise and fear and anger, and when he swallows it is painful. "Do not—" he rasps, his mouth still dry— "do not ever speak in that manner of my family!" He did not intend cruelty, but finds his voice has risen in anger. "I will have you punished. Whoever you talked to, whoever told you this—"

In the shadows, Esca drops his head, wounded, and his words twist in confusion. "I— I don't understand what I've said to hurt you. I won't say anything further, then, but I was only asking of your name—"

"My name?" Marcus frowns. "What of my name?"

"Well," Esca begins, his eyes still fixed on the ground, "is it not a noble name, being called after an eagle? I know that men who have done honorable things for Rome are named after the services they have performed, sometimes, they and their children, and I only thought to ask how your family came by that virtue-name. I thought perhaps it might involve the standards of the army. But I see that somehow I have offended you, though I do not understand why."

He doesn't know. He truly doesn't know. A strange sense of relief wells up in Marcus, and it makes him laugh, though nothing is funny. He laughs as though he might cry if he stopped, and he cannot, cannot cry. He has never cried about his father before. He will not begin now.

Esca's head is back up now, and he would guess in the dimness that the look on Esca's face is still more puzzlement.

"It is a coincidence." Marcus exhales and finds that he himself cannot meet Esca's eyes. "A vile coincidence, to be sure, but a coincidence nonetheless; I fear that my family, for all that our name is proud, is ill-favored by the gods. Or perhaps they and the Fates mock us. I have never quite decided." He scrapes his hand miserably across his face, not wanting the man to see him. "Esca, my father _lost_ the Eagle."

"Oh."

Esca's reply, when it comes, is almost too quiet to hear; he says nothing else.

"I do not mean to say that he was an aquilifer who turned cowardly and ran in battle, or some such thing," Marcus says, ignoring, as always, the tiny voice in his head whispering that he doesn't know his father acted with honor, that he doesn't know anything. He isn't even sure why he's explaining this to Esca; he does not need the man's sympathy or reassurance or anything of the sort. The words come from him anyway. "He was a centurion. He was primus pilus of the Ninth Legion, twenty years ago, when they marched north and never came back. The whole legion, lost."

He almost thinks he can see Esca's eyes now, intent on him, though he is still a little too far away. "I've heard of the Ninth, yes. Not that I remember it personally; I was a child when it happened. But I have certainly heard of the legion among my people, and I am sorry for your loss."

"And your people rejoiced in the slaughter of five thousand Romans, I suppose?" Marcus spits out, and, horrified, wants to take it back as soon as he has said it. Esca has not volunteered any information about his past before now, and he certainly will not again.

But Esca's voice is quiet. "No. And if that's what you think I truly believe, it's a wonder that I ever—" He breaks off. "I am sorry. I know this is a difficult thing, and I would not shame you for it. You have reason to be angry."

"Do you know what it's like when everyone you meet sees only your dead father in you?" Marcus asks, bitterly, and across from him Esca goes still. "Do you know how it is to live every day shadowed by his disgrace? I wanted to soldier, to win back my family's honor, to do what he could not. But it is all about who likes whom, in Rome, and when I went to give my name, they looked at each other and said there were no suitable postings in the army for me. Do you not see?" He has hardly told this story to anyone, and is not certain what possesses him to tell it now. He has the strange feeling Esca will understand him.

Moonlight breaks through the trees and he can see that Esca still looks hesitant, but gives him a faint, encouraging smile. "I am not sure I do," Esca says, carefully. "You are here now, after all."

"I am an equestrian," Marcus clarifies. "We ought to be officers, and that is what we start as from the very beginning. Sometimes, if a man desperately wants a position on the ground, he may begin his career as a centurion, but the track for a good man is an officer. And they looked at me, they looked at my name, and the tribune said that they were sorry but there were simply not enough postings. But he was lying." His voice is tight in his throat.

"What did you do?"

Marcus snorts. "What else was there to do? I gave my name as an ordinary soldier. They thought I was jesting, at first, but they couldn't very well turn me away. Three days later I was on a ship. So I am a centurion now only because I worked my way up through the ranks, in the Tenth Fretensis, in Hierosolyma." He gives the city its Greek pronunciation, though he knows he ought to have called it Colonia Aelia Capitolina, a new name for a new city. It seems strange to call it anything in Latin when he was only ever speaking Greek there.

"Judaea, eh?" Esca's look is long and considering, and he doesn't call the province Syria Palaestina either, for all that it's had the name five years now as well, the same as the city. "It is no wonder you learned to shoot like a strange Easterner. You were there for the revolts?"

He nods. "Indeed. I won't say it was quiet, but it was a good posting. I always wanted a posting in Britannia, though, so when they offered me a promotion for transferring out of the legion to the auxiliaries here, well, I could not refuse that, could I?"

It is not quite light enough that he can see Esca's eyebrows raise, but he knows somehow that that is the expression on his face. "You _wanted_ Britannia?"

"I did." Marcus ducks his head. "You'll laugh if I tell you why."

"I won't laugh." Esca's voice is soft, but still determined. "I promise. How could it be anything other than pleasant to know that you wished to come here? To hear the rest of you Romans tell it, my home is worse than your underworld, and possibly colder as well." He smiles as Marcus makes a face at his impious words. "Tell me."

There must be some trick Esca has to pitching his words so, that makes Marcus want to obey without even thinking about it. He will have to have Esca teach it to him, he thinks, as he is already opening his mouth to speak the desires he has never voiced aloud. "I thought— I thought I might win back the lost Eagle and restore my family's name. That there might be some trace here of what became of the Ninth and my father."

In the moonlight, the corners of Esca's mouth twitch, but only once. "It is a vast wilderness here, I am afraid," he says, sounding almost regretful. It is not the chastising tone Marcus half-expects to hear. "It is hard enough to track things that are twenty hours gone, much less twenty years."

"I know that _now_ ," Marcus says in exasperation, feeling his face grow hot. "It was only a mad wish I had, before I knew what the land was like."

Esca only smiles at him, an oddly gentle look. "Well, perhaps someday, when Rome will have ridden over the whole isle and all the secrets are known, someone will find that the Epidii have stolen your Eagle away and hidden it in some cave. You never know."

"Perhaps," Marcus echoes, though that sounds unbelievable. He shifts, suddenly awkward. He has given up so much of himself to Esca now, these ambitions he has never shared with anyone else. What if Esca thinks badly of him, or thinks it silly?

But Esca tilts his head, just so, bringing his face now into the light, and his gaze is full of a kind of fierce pride, wonderful to behold, and Marcus finds himself idiotically thinking that the man could not look more beautiful if he tried. "Were I your aquilifer," he says, his voice solemn, "I would not let your Eagle fall."

He does not know what to say to that. He has earned Esca's loyalty, somehow, with his words or actions, or with his tales of his past; he does not know which. It is a strange sort of vow, not one a Roman would make, but perhaps it is one a Briton would. And somehow the pledge warms his heart. No one ever comforted him thus—it was all in such a way that he would have felt humiliated to accept any sympathy—but from Esca it seems as from one warrior to another, as though the man understands.

"Thank you." Marcus clears his throat. The words seem inadequate.

Esca nods. "There is no need to thank me for the truth."

They sit in silence for a few moments, and Marcus dares to wonder, to ask more. "So, if I have answered your questions, might I ask my own of you?"

At those words Esca draws in on himself, tense, and Marcus knows suddenly that having the man's loyalty is very different than having his obedience. He may have the one, but no one has the other.

"You may ask," Esca says warily. He does not end the sentence, but it is plain as day that he does not promise any answers.

"Why did you join the army, then?"

He decided upon this question as being safer than asking who Esca is, who Esca was, why the century follows him unquestioningly. This, he might even get an answer to, because there are only so many possible answers. Men join for the pay, or, because this is the auxiliaries, for the promise of citizenship after twenty-five years. Some might join for the honor of serving Rome, but he knows this cannot be Esca; he is a Briton, after all, and why should he love Rome? No, Esca's considerations are certainly purely pragmatic: money, most likely; freedom from taxation after his citizenship is gained; and other things of that sort.

Esca stares at him evenly and delivers a completely unexpected response. "To kill people."

And Marcus flounders for something, anything to say. "Anyone in particular?" He tries to sound a little lighthearted about it; there are after all many people in the world, and Esca hardly seems like the bloodthirsty sort. Not since he's known him, and Marcus has certainly met many men who delight far more in bloodshed than Esca seems to. It must be some sort of jest.

"Yes."

Esca's gaze is still hard, resolved, and he nearly cannot bear it. This is not a joke, then. But Esca does not offer any clarification as to who these people might be, or why he is doing this.

Marcus is at a loss for words. "You— who— why?"

"It is my own affair," Esca says, voice as hard as his words. "It's why I've stayed posted here seven years. I will not leave this land, and I will not leave my posting, even if the prefect here would ever consider a Briton for anything. I do my job well, but I act up just enough that no one will want to promote me or transfer me; who wants to foist a barely-subordinate soldier off on someone who isn't the lowest centurion?" He gestures at himself and Marcus can just barely see him smirking. "Who would want me?"

_I do_. Marcus bites his lip before the words come out. "What if someone did promote you? Or transfer you?"

Esca shrugs. "I'd run." He makes the sentence sound perfectly reasonable, as though he has not just told his commander of his plans for desertion. "Rome knows very little of this land. You would never find me."

"No," Marcus says, faintly, a little shocked by how brazenly Esca can admit this. "I don't suppose anyone would." He can't help wondering. "How did your other commanders take that news?"

"Oh, I didn't tell any of them my plans," Esca says immediately, and he starts to smile, as thought he is remembering something that amuses him, even as Marcus is selfishly pondering what this can mean, that Esca would trust him enough to tell him this. "I only tried to... make an impression that would last."

"What, you mean, as you were insubordinate when I met you? Not saluting, things of that nature?" Marcus remembers being annoyed at the time, but it certainly wasn't enough to prejudice him against the man permanently, for here they are now.

Esca smirks. "You think you've seen me being insubordinate? You haven't even seen me try."

The words are far more honest than anyone should speak to a commander, but it is not in Marcus' heart to reproach him for it. He raises an eyebrow. "You spared me?"

Esca grins. "I suppose I liked you better, sir," and the words should not make Marcus feel anything, no, the heat within him has nothing to do with anything Esca has said, or the way Esca looks now—

He strives for a question to ask, lest Esca notice anything out of place in his response. "Dare I inquire as to how you have impressed your other commanders?"

"Well, three years ago, when Viridio was posted—" Esca starts laughing as if this is the best tale anyone could tell— "my first meeting with him was in his tent."

Confused, Marcus frowns. "There was something he objected to about that?"

"Oh, yes." Esca is still laughing. "He walked in and found me fucking Carantos across his desk. I had bruises for the rest of the month from the beating—"

Marcus is hardly listening; he cannot hear the rest of Esca's words over the dizzying rush of blood to his head, as well as, he must admit, other places, as he pictures the scene. The feeling that courses through him now mixes lust with an ugly, possessive jealousy, and he hates himself for feeling this most bitter emotion. It is not as if he has any claim on Esca, none at all, but it is one thing to fantasize about the man and another thing entirely to hear that he has happily done these things with others, when Marcus knows that Esca does not and cannot want him. He has only to remember Esca's reaction to the hunter.

Luckily Esca takes the look on his face for something else entirely, and he continues to grin. "You Romans and your morals," he says, sounding almost fond as he shakes his head. "I'll never understand you."

But Marcus is still stuck on the image of Esca and Carantos together, his traitorous mind filling in every detail, sifting through his memories, noticing how the men were friendly, certainly, though he never expected news of this. On the other hand, he had not precisely been looking for it. "You and Carantos are lovers?" he asks, trying to keep any sadness out of his voice. "I was only surprised to hear it now, not offended. I had not marked your relationship."

"Carantos and I?" Esca's voice is incredulous. "Oh, we are not in any kind of relationship! Nothing of the sort. I count him a good friend, certainly, but nothing more than that. And anyway, that was years ago and we were only bored and in want of something to do. No, I am alone, as you see me."

Marcus' heart lightens at the words, and he hates himself for thinking it—if he truly cared for Esca, he would wish for Esca's happiness with someone, anyone, and it does indeed make him sad to think that Esca has no one. But selfishly, he wishes it were him. "You have no one, then?"

"I have friends," Esca says, and his voice comes slowly from him, thoughtful and almost melancholy, and it is clear that this does not quite please Esca; his head drops and he does not meet Marcus's gaze. "In the meantime, I am waiting."

"Waiting?"

Esca's reply, when it comes, is measured, careful, and it twists Marcus into pieces and shatters him. "I've had my eye on someone for a while now. Since I met him, in fact. I have been... hoping very much that he would say something to me. But he hasn't. Not yet." Esca isn't looking at him, but the growing sadness in his eyes, in his voice, makes Marcus want to find whoever it is and make the man talk to Esca, make him see that he is breaking Esca's heart.

"Forgive me if I impose," Marcus forces himself to say, struggling to keep his own pain out of it. Esca does not want him; well, he knew that, so what should it matter to him if Esca wants another? It should not. It is only the truth confirmed. "I've only known you this month, but it seems to me that you are the sort of man who goes out and takes what he wants. Why not be bold?"

A smile flicks across Esca's lips and is gone. "He's special, this one. There are other considerations. I must wait for him to ask me. You are right, though; it is not usually my way in matters of the heart."

Marcus exhales and coughs, far out of his depth now for giving advice. What does he know about love? One does not need to love to fuck slaves or buy an hour with a whore, after all. "I hope for your sake that he returns your affections," he finally volunteers. _He would be a fool not to_.

"I thank you." Esca's laugh sounds strangely rueful. "So, what about you, Aquila? Left a girl behind in— where did you say you were from, again?"

"Etruria," Marcus responds, instantly, before his mind catches up with his mouth enough to realize that he has never told Esca where he was from before. He's a clever one. A few more questions like that and Marcus could find all of his desires spilling out of him. And he must never mention it, especially now that he knows Esca loves another. Esca does not need this unwelcome burden. "And no," he finishes, "there's no one for me there. Nor anywhere else."

"Lonely, then?"

He shrugs. "I only ever wanted to be a soldier." It never bothered him until now; he could slake the needs of his body easily enough and be done with it. Before Esca. Now, he only burns. And he realizes now, half in horror at the sudden feeling, that he is lonely after all. Oh, he does not want to deal with this. "Love would only complicate matters." His voice is firm; he is telling this more to himself than to Esca. And he is not in love with the man anyway. Certainly not.

"Ah." Esca's voice is inexplicably quiet, and he is silent for a long while, but then comes back with a reply, one that is oddly hesitant for him. "If you need someone, I recommend Carantos."

Marcus blinks a few times and isn't quite certain he's heard him correctly. "You recommend— who? What?"

"Carantos," Esca says again, briskly, as if he recommends his former paramours to his commanders all the time. "He's a good lover, and more importantly, a decent man besides; you won't find him the next day mocking anyone he's known. He won't ask for your devotion, but it's a good way to feel less... lonely. Besides, he likes you well enough. I can ask him for you myself, if you would prefer that someone else learn his opinion of you for you—" Esca stops, sounding confused. "Is he not attractive to you?"

Does he not even realize what he's proposing? Aghast, Marcus finally finds words. "Esca. This is against military discipline. I do not involve myself with my subordinates. I never have and never will. I cannot become attached to any man of the century." The Britons have strange ways indeed, but it was clearly offered in all kindness, and he will strive not to be insulted. So he adds: "But I... thank you for the offer." It is all the worse because it is so very like his desires. But it is not Carantos whom he wants.

Esca's face twists and he shuts his eyes. Is he that upset that Marcus would refuse his idea? He seems more upset about this than he has been about anything. It is very strange. But he cannot simply ask Esca things and have him answer. That is not how this works. Not between them.

"Ah," Esca says finally, his voice gone dull and wearied. If his voice was a weapon before, it is an old useless one now, broken and blunted. "I should have realized. Thank you for telling me. I am sorry if the suggestion has offended you."

"It is not a problem," Marcus returns, even though it is a problem, even though there are so many problems, because he wants Esca whom he cannot have, and Esca wants another. "I think I will check on our sentries now," he adds, though it is not time yet to change posts. He must distract himself from this. They cannot keep talking of these matters.

That night he ends up sleeping the middle two watches, his cloak barely keeping the ground's moisture away, and as he shivers he looks over the men separating them to see Esca, curled in on himself, long elegant fingers digging into the folds of his own cloak, pulling it tighter. Esca must be cold too, he knows. They are so close, and he could move closer, and he could— not do anything. Ever. And that is how it must be. And Esca must never find out.

* * *

He finds himself shying away from Esca over the next two days of the mission, as if some part of him has decided, finally, sensibly, that that was far closer than he should really get to the man. Esca seems to have decided the same thing as well, because he hardly talks to him, and they no longer find themselves uncomfortably alone together. But he cannot quite stop himself from looking at Esca, when Esca won't notice, hoping for things he cannot have.

Even though there is once again no sign of the Votadini, Marcus finds many things to occupy himself; the men continue to teach him British, and Sintorix and Gryllus spend a painstaking hour reciting every British obscenity they know for his edification—"so you might know if anyone says any ill-mannered things about you, sir," Paetinus cheerfully puts in as he wanders through the camp—and Marcus tries to learn all the words he hears, whatever they mean. He is better at putting together a sentence, now, and his mimicry of the accent is, he thinks, quite good. It must be, because the men seem to forget sometimes that he is not one of them and so they increase the speed of their speech and use words Marcus does not yet know. And Laetinianus glares, of course. Marcus mostly ignores him.

It is on the final day that everything is ruined.

All eighteen of them—the two full squads, Laetinianus, and Marcus— are arranged in various positions along the slope, spanning a great distance of land, using the scattered bushes and dips in the ground as cover. They watch an empty trail that twists and meanders its way across the countryside. Esca is to Marcus' left, about twenty feet down the trail, hidden so deeply in the bush and grasses that Marcus would never suspect. Another fifty feet to Marcus' right are Laetinianus and Sintorix; the Briton is half-sitting on the optio to prevent him from making any noise, and even so Marcus fancies he can hear the slight jingling of metal on metal. Marcus idly wonders if he's managed to fit the staff in the bush as well.

It is a hot day, hotter than any Marcus has experienced since coming here, and he is over-warm in his sleeved tunic and braccae. A rivulet of sweat trickles down his brow and into his eye, stinging, and his new training barely overrides years of habit, only just in time: he stays perfectly still.

This is getting them nowhere, and as it is the last day, they should be heading back to the garrison. They were to come back today even if they had not seen the Votadini, so they should begin the march now. Marcus is about to slide down out of the bush and begin gathering the men when he sees, finally, a flash of movement on the trail. Someone is coming.

Marcus holds his breath as he watches. It is a single man, striding down the trail. He has no horse to carry him, but he lopes along at a brisk, confident pace, as if he has some errand. A messenger, perhaps. The man is clearly a Briton, though smaller than most. He is stripped to the waist in the heat, and every inch of his skin Marcus can see is blue, covered in twining, alien tattoos, more than Marcus has ever seen on his own men. He is fierce and feral in a way Marcus finds unnerving to watch. Everything about him is a threat.

As the man is some sort of Briton, no doubt the century will tell him which tribe, once he has left. Probably one of those Votadini, of course, though Marcus is not certain why there should be only one. And he is heading west, to the lands of the Selgovae, just as they expected the Votadini to do. It will be a dull report, Marcus thinks as the man draws closer, but it is all that they can report. At least it is better than having nothing to say to Suilius. They will just wait for him to pass and then be on their way.

On Marcus' left, the bushes rustle. It is a quiet sound, too quiet for the man on the trail to notice, but Marcus pays attention to these things now. And out of the corner of his eye, he sees Esca, sliding slowly down out of the bush, rising to his knees. His face is twisted, flushed in anger, and he mouths words Marcus cannot hear, all the while staring at the tattooed man.

Marcus does not quite realize what Esca is doing, at first. He watches as Esca silently reaches back to his quiver, plucks out an arrow, and then takes his bow into his hands. It is not that Marcus does not observe these movements, for he does; it is only that he somehow does not realize what they must mean all together. For it cannot be what it looks like. Esca cannot intend this. They are not to engage the enemy. There were orders.

It is only when Esca looks down to fit the arrow to the bowstring, his face graven now into still, steady determination, that the weight of his actions breaks through Marcus' disbelief. Esca is not going to stop. Esca intends to kill that man.

The strange Briton on the trail has not noticed, even now, while Esca rises silently to his feet—the man has his back turned, and at this pace he is moving farther and farther away very quickly—and begins to draw. Esca is truly going to do this.

He is too far away to stop Esca now. He knows this. But he scrambles out of the bush, ignoring as the leaves and thorns catch on his hands and clothes, halfway to lunging at Esca. Marcus does not care how much noise he is making now.

"Esca!" he calls out, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Esca, don't shoot! That's an order! Damn you, don't shoot him!"

The man on the trail hears him, starting to turn—

If Esca hears, he gives no indication. And Marcus is running, leaping over the uneven ground, but he won't reach Esca in time, as Esca opens his hand and lets the arrow fly—

_Maybe he'll miss_ , the thought floats idiotically through Marcus' mind. _At this distance, even a skilled archer might miss. Or if he hits, it might only wound. A poor archer would have no chance_. But he knows even as he thinks it that Esca is not a poor archer.

The tattooed man collapses and falls to the earth just as Marcus reaches Esca, too late, much too late. The man is likely dead. Esca would not have missed.

Marcus seizes Esca's wrist roughly, forcing the bow down—a useless gesture, as he's already shot him—and he pulls Esca to face him. An odd sort of anger flows through Marcus. It is not the hot rage of battle, but rather it feels strangely distant and at the same time inevitable, as if he ought to have expected this. 

"By all the gods, Esca, what do you think you're doing?" 

He is yelling in Esca's face, and he hopes belatedly that there will be no more runners along the trail, as he has certainly alerted them if they exist.

Esca wrenches his arm out of Marcus' grasp and glares. "Trying to kill a man; isn't that obvious?"

Over on the trail, Galerus and Gavo have moved out of hiding, toward where the Briton lies prone in the dirt. Gavo kneels to check him, and then Galerus turns and lifts his fist in one of the hand-signs of the arena, thumb held up like a sword raised for the kill. Death.

Having seen the sign, Esca spits on the ground, and Marcus has the sense that if he were closer he would spit on the body instead.

Marcus doesn't understand any of it. "But why?"

"He deserved it." 

"What did he ever do to you?"

"He existed!" Esca's eyes are narrowed, full of fire, and his voice has risen to meet Marcus'. "He was Caledonii, and he deserved to die like the rest of them!"

Caledonii? The one tribe they were trying to find traces of, and Esca has killed the man? Why? "You know the orders!" Marcus snaps. "We were not to interfere! How will we find where he is going now? We could even have talked to him—"

"We don't even speak the same language!" Esca says, and the words come out as a snarl. "And he would have killed us if he had known we were here. It is better to kill them first." His eyes are wild. "It is best to kill all of them!"

Marcus' mind flashes back, suddenly, to Esca's words from the other night, how he joined the army to kill. Perhaps he was speaking of the Caledonii then. But why? And how could Esca have meant that he would do this?

"And what do you think will happen when this man doesn't get where he's going? What will they find when they come looking for him?" Marcus retorts. "Did you think of that? Were you even thinking?"

Esca tilts his chin up, as if he is bracing for a blow. Perhaps another man would have hit him for this, right now. Perhaps his previous centurions did. Half of Marcus wants to lash out with the punch Esca is expecting, and the other half is sick at the thought that he might. 

Esca glares at him and Marcus knows nothing he can say will move him. "The Caledonii will find their beast slaughtered for them, as well he should have been, and I only wish I had made him suffer more. I care not what they think of it; they deserve all the pain they might feel a thousandfold. And if you mean the Votadini, if this man was heading toward them, I care not for any who might be allied with the Caledonii either. They are monsters."

"You have disobeyed my direct orders," Marcus grits out, his teeth clenched. The rest of the men are beginning to gather around him, but he pays it no mind. "You will submit to discipline when we have returned to the garrison." His voice is trying to shake, but he forces the words out as harshly as he can.

Esca's eyes have gone cold now, as though Marcus is a stranger to him, and he steps back and salutes, his head held proudly. "I will submit, sir." And even those words sound incredibly, unbelievably defiant, as if he intends to do no such thing, as if he will submit but is doing it on his own terms, favoring Marcus by deigning to kneel. He will have to kneel soon.

Marcus does not want to do this.

He closes his eyes and takes a few steadying breaths; when he opens them again, the men of the century surround him on all sides, pressing him. They have all seen what has happened. There is no escaping this or pretending that Esca did not do what he has done. And he is still their commander. He must give them orders.

"Break camp," he calls out. "We will head back shortly. And someone, please, find something to do with the body." The anger is draining from him now, leaving nothing to hold him up. He wishes Esca had not done this. He wants to not deal with this. He does not want to deal with anything. But he must command.

Laetinianus comes up as the men disappear to fetch their gear and to manage the corpse, and a smirk is beginning to spread across the man's face. Marcus briefly wonders if punching Laetinianus will make him feel better.

"I am glad to see you finally asserting yourself with that one, sir," Laetinianus says, smiling, sounding confidential. "He has gone without a beating for far too long. He needs to learn his place."

Marcus stares bleakly back. "Did any of the other beatings not teach him, then?"

"Oh, he always needed them regularly." His optio, ever the stupid one, seems to completely miss the question that Marcus is really asking. "Viridio used to have me do it, some of the time," he adds, now sounding eager to impress. "If you'd rather not waste your time dealing with the likes of him, I'd be happy to take a staff to him for you, sir!" And the man actually grins as though he has been looking forward to this very thing, as though he has been waiting to harm Esca.

Marcus feels as though he truly might be sick. This pleases his optio? He is a wretched, horrible man. Rome would not see it thus, he knows, suddenly; a man like that would be encouraged, celebrated for keeping a firm hand on the barbarians.

"No, thank you," Marcus says, surprising himself with the sudden possessiveness he feels. "Esca is mine." He will not let this man take any joy in making Esca suffer, for there are callous officers who love to inflict pain for offenses, real or imagined, to break staves across backs. Marcus is not one of them. Esca will get the beating that regulations stipulate and no more. He owes Esca at least this much.

Laetinianus shrugs. "As you wish, sir."

* * *

Clouds hide the late afternoon sunlight by the time they reach the garrison, and so too has Marcus' anger faded from bright indignity into a shadowed, reluctant resignation. Esca does not look at him for the entire course of the march. In some ways, this is a relief. Marcus does not look forward to facing this.

"All of you are free for the rest of the day," he calls out, once they have reached their area of the camp. "All except Esca."

But he did not need to add this, as Esca makes no motion to leave with the others who are stowing their gear and wandering off to find food or drink while it is still light out, or to head to the baths. Marcus does need to report to Suilius, but as he will have to bathe and change beforehand so as not to irritate the tribune, he might as well take care of Esca's punishment first. He can do this, he tells himself. It is only a beating. It will only be a few good bruises, all that is needed, and Esca will heal soon enough.

Marcus has beaten men before, certainly, and he was even beaten once or twice himself as an ordinary soldier, though he likes not to remember those times. Marcus has not beaten anyone in this century yet, but it was only a matter of time; someone had to be the first to misbehave. In the Tenth, after he was made optio, his centurion liked to give him practice holding the reins of command by having him administer some of the discipline. He has certainly wielded a vine-staff or a club in the past. That is not the problem. Marcus never particularly enjoyed it, of course—it is a disagreeable duty, but it must be done—but he cannot recall having been quite so averse to it before.

Esca stares at him from across the now-empty camp, his face frozen and blank.

"My tent, soldier," Marcus says, curtly, biting off the words so that Esca will not notice any feeling behind them. Marcus cannot let himself feel anything about this. He is only just holding on to control, behind this facade of being a stern commander.

He turns and stalks into his tent, and after Esca has followed him he pulls the tent flaps shut, dropping the area into dimness. He knows it is completely contrary to how a beating is normally done, but if he has to do this, he doesn't want anyone to see, even though visibility is usually the point. He can barely handle this as it is.

Esca clears his throat and speaks for the first time in hours. "You could do this in public, you know." His voice is hoarse, but the tone is level. As if this means nothing to him. It is only a beating. "I don't mind. It's not as though it hasn't happened before."

"If you don't mind me beating you in public," says Marcus, turning away, and he can hardly force the words out, "that removes the general idea behind the public aspect of the punishment. Consider it a concession to your honor." _My honor_ , he thinks, instantly, _as I would be shamed to hurt you before others_ , and now that the thought has entered his head he knows exactly why he does not want to do this, why this matters so much, why it is different.

He cares for Esca. He does not want to hurt him. Not now, not ever, and he certainly does not want to take a staff to his back, no matter what he has done to earn it.

Oh.

He cannot do this. He cannot. 

He must.

"That is not where my honor lies, centurion." Esca's voice is still dry. "But if it would please you, by all means we can do this wherever you like. I will submit, as I have said."

Marcus reaches his desk and closes his hand around his vine-staff, hardly used since he get here. It is the symbol of the centurion, and one he has hardly had the chance to carry given the amount of time he has spent pretending to be someone else. Other centurions swagger about with their staves, a reminder that they might beat anyone, as they chose, but that is not the sort of man Marcus is, or wants to be. It is the sort of man he has to be right now, and he tries not to think about it as his throat grows tight with another emotion he dares not name.

He breathes in and out to calm himself, picks up the staff, and then turns to face Esca. His expression is stilled into perfect command. The perfect centurion. He knows how to do this. This is a mask he can wear. "Soldier," he says, formally, "are you aware of the offense you have committed?"

If Esca were as other men, Marcus might be able to do this. He has beaten men who were drunk and fell asleep on watch, who left their posts unguarded, who fought with others, and in every case they raged and denied the charges. It hadn't been their fault. It was their tent-mate instead, he was the one asleep. It wasn't them. They didn't deserve it. The other man started the fight. They were innocent. And it made it easier to beat them in their outrage, knowing at least that by their denial they showed they knew the rules they had violated, that discipline would correct them. It made Marcus feel better than they, because they would lie, because they would hide the truth, and it was all right to punish that.

But Esca is not as other men, and that makes everything worse.

"Yes, sir," Esca says, and though his eyes are cold he tilts his head up as though he is proud of what he has done. "I have been insubordinate. I killed a man of the Caledonii without just cause, against your express orders and against the orders of the mission." 

Marcus knows that Esca is not sorry, that he believes his cause to be just, that he would do it again, that he would kill a hundred more, a thousand more. And yet the beating is supposed to teach Esca not to. It will do nothing of the sort. It will only cause him pain. Marcus will only cause him pain.

"Indeed." Marcus tilts his head in acknowledgment, clasping his fingers more tightly around the thin wood of the vine-staff so that Esca will not see his hands shaking. "Do you know what the punishment for this offense is?"

Esca nods. "You will beat me, sir."

"I will." Marcus swallows. "Take off your tunic."

Something ugly in his head starts laughing. The gods are mocking him, oh yes, for is this not like what he wanted from Esca? Esca, so near to him, unfastening his belt, pulling his tunic over his head, dropping it next to him. It is very like some of the things he has thought about, but then in all other respects it is horrifically, emphatically not. Esca does not want him, and if Esca ever did, he will not want Marcus after he does this. At least it will prevent Esca from noticing his... feelings; Esca will of course want to avoid him. Esca will probably never want to talk to him again.

Esca's gaze locks with his as he takes his clothing off, an intent, all-consuming look only halted for an instant as he lifts the wool past his face. He stands there, still proud and unbroken, stripped to the waist and defiant when already a Roman would begin to look ashamed for being in such a state. His thin, bare chest rises and falls, slowly, as he takes shallow breaths and says nothing. He is waiting.

(And Marcus cannot think now about how he is beautiful, even now, even like this, and all his admiration and desire twists together with the shame of even daring to think about this, and he cannot think about any of it, lest it wholly destroy him, and there will be nothing left.)

"Kneel."

With the air of someone who is doing this as a free creature, only because it pleases him to obey, Esca drops gracefully to his knees. He has put himself before the desk, it being the heaviest thing in the tent, as though he has done this a hundred times before, bracing his arms on it, head level with the top. It will serve the function of a post well enough. Esca is not new to being beaten here, Marcus gathers, and as Marcus walks around the other side of the desk to see him, it takes everything he has not to cry out once he sees Esca's back.

Somehow he never noticed before; he has seen Esca without his tunic, but mostly from a distance, and when he had been so close before, when they wrestled, he had been... distracted. But now he sees that Esca's back, pale and bony that it is, is marked with a mass of scars, a fine tracery of old wounds barely visible in this light. They are not great jagged gashes and so blend in well, therefore perhaps it is understandable that he did not see them before. Most are in neat, precise lines, and all are the exact width of a vine-staff. Esca has done this before, indeed, and now Marcus must inflict it on him again?

He wants to be sick. He feels his skin grow cold and sweaty, the staff slipping in his hands, and he thinks he might actually be sick. To his horror, he hears his own breathing grow faster. The mask is slipping.

He waits, and waits, all the while holding the staff, while he knows Esca is waiting for him too, waiting for him to hit him already, probably wondering why he hasn't.

Marcus' terrified heart pounds in his chest for far too long before Esca speaks.

"Well?" Esca's voice is part-curious and part-impatient. "Aren't you going to hit me?"

He opens his mouth, and to his horror, the noise that comes out is a half-choked, wretched sound, as though he is dying inside. "I— I _can't_."

Esca lifts his head at that, and his eyes go wide when he sees Marcus' face. Marcus does not know what he looks like, what Esca sees. The mask is gone now. He doesn't care. If the perfect centurion would beat Esca without a second thought, he would rather die than be that man.

Esca does not seem to know what to say, as he licks dry, cracked lips and is silent for a long time before he speaks. "Aquila—"

Marcus is half-afraid of what Esca might say, and interrupts him, repeating himself. "I can't do this," he says again, helplessly, and squeezes his eyes shut to repress the hot, twisted burning behind them. He cannot cry. Of all things, he cannot.

Esca's reply, when it comes, is simple. "You have to."

"It will not teach you anything," Marcus snaps back, taking refuge in the strange rueful anger of earlier, a feeling that has suddenly returned. "You will only do it again and again. You think I do not know that? It will only hurt you." _I will only hurt you_.

"It isn't about me," Esca counters. His voice is steady, but the line of his stretched-out arms wavers with tension. "Half the century saw me disobey you. If you care anything about winning their respect, you must do this. If you do not punish me, they will try to get away with anything they can, all of them, and they will all be as insubordinate as I am, or worse. You are their commander. You need to do this. For them. Think of them. Not me."

Marcus shakes his head wildly, even though he knows Esca's words are the truth. "I can tell them I beat you— we do not need to do this—"

"You have to do this," Esca repeats, and his voice is calm, almost as though he is trying to soothe Marcus, even though the words are horrifying. "You have already dragged me in here, in private. They will not be satisfied unless there are marks for everyone to see, later, and I can tell them how harsh you were on me, and then they won't step out of line." He sounds oddly reflective. "Laetinianus of course likes to see my blood," he says, thoughtfully, "but I hope you will not find that necessary."

Marcus again ponders being sick, or perhaps beating Laetinianus.

"I can't." It seems to be the only sentence he can manage.

"You can." Esca's voice has gone cold and hard now, as if it is Esca giving him orders. "You can and you must. You have to beat me."

"No."

Esca's face twists in something that might be anger, and his eyes glint bright. "Come on, Aquila. Hit me!"

"No," Marcus repeats. He is unsteady on his feet, wobbling, and he clutches the edge of the desk for balance, but he still has the vine-staff in his fist.

And Esca's lips part in a smile that is not at all nice, not at all beautiful. It is terrifying, twisted, and taunting. "Are you weak? Is that the matter, Aquila? Are you afraid you won't be able to hit me properly?"

Sudden anger flashes through Marcus. What— why is Esca saying these things? "I—"

"You might be worried about that," Esca muses, and his voice is cruel and harsh. "I mean, look how you're dressing already." He eyes Marcus, up and down, and lets out a laugh. "Your friends back in the legions, I'll bet they never imagined this, eh? So... unmanly. Lost your touch, have you? Going to flail at me, useless, like some woman? You probably couldn't even hurt me."

The anger rises higher in Marcus, and he grits his teeth. "Esca, what are you doing?"

"Beat me!" Esca yells at him, full-voiced now. "Just hit me! Do it!"

Marcus does not move. "I can't," he says, although it is getting harder not to lose himself with Esca taunting him so.

"Oh, you can," Esca says. "I know you could, if you wanted to. But you don't want to." His voice curls nastily around the words, knowing, as if there are hidden codes buried within them. "Your father was a centurion, you said?"

Marcus can hardly breathe. He knows what Esca is doing now. "Esca, don't—" he gasps out. "Don't make me do this, Esca. I don't want to do this to you."

Esca chuckles unpleasantly. "I'm sure he disciplined his men, didn't he? How do you think he'd feel, your father, if he could see you now? You're standing here telling me you can't possibly beat me, Aquila. I killed a man and you couldn't stop me, and you don't even want to punish me for it. Are you that weak? That soft? That incompetent? Isn't that what your father would think? Do you think he'd be proud of his son?"

"Stop talking!" Marcus roars, and he isn't even thinking about it, really, because he can hardly think anymore over the rush of blood, the fire of battle, but the staff is raised in his hand.

And Esca just laughs and laughs, as if this is precisely what he wanted. "If you want me to stop, Aquila, you have to make me. Hit me. Do it. Hit me now."

Marcus clings to the remaining shreds of his reason. Esca will not make him do this. "Please, Esca," he says, and he is begging now, the words falling brokenly from his mouth. "Don't."

Esca turns a little more to face him, though he is still leaning on the desk. His mouth is still curved in an awful, awful smile, but his eyes have gone still, focused on something lonely and faraway. He breathes out once and speaks haltingly, as if this is the last thing he ever wanted to say. "I know all your secrets." His voice is barely above a whisper. "And, oh, I can tell them. I can tell them to everyone. I will, if you don't hit me. I might anyway. Would you like me to tell them to you? Let's start with that."

A horrible despair wraps itself around Marcus, like one of Minerva's serpents in the tale, and he fears he will be consumed by it. And still the rage rises. "Esca—"

"I've seen you looking at me," Esca whispers, and Marcus' heart goes cold in his chest. "I am not stupid, and I am not blind, and I know. I know all of it. I know what you want me to do to you."

Marcus can hardly even see, past the haze of rage and fear and the tears threatening to trickle down his face. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Esca was never supposed to know. "No, please—"

"You think you've been subtle? You haven't. It's sad, really, when you think about it." Esca laughs, a dry, rasping chuckle. "You want to be the best centurion ever, you want to serve Rome with honor, and you desperately want one of your barbarian soldiers to fuck you until you can't walk. You should be on your knees here, not me," he muses. "You'd like that. _Cinaede_."

"Lies," Marcus forces out, though he can barely speak. "Stop it. Stop telling these filthy, awful lies—"

"You mean the truth? Oh, I'll tell it to the tribune," Esca retorts, and the horrible, horrible shame and terror is all that is left in Marcus now, as he pictures it. "I'll tell everyone. Have you any family left alive I could contact—"

" _Stop talking!_ "

He is not thinking, he cannot think of anything except making Esca be quiet, making him not say these cruel things, and the staff is in his hand, and he hits him—

And Esca, who was not even braced for it, is taken by surprise as the blow catches him heavily on his back, across his shoulders. His head slams hard against the edge of the desk, and there is blood on his face—

And damn him, he does not fall silent.

"Oh, is that all?" Esca taunts, his words coming faster now. "Is that the best you can do? Perhaps you're better at _suffering_ , you know—"

Marcus hits him again, and again, and again, not even caring where the blows fall, only caring that Esca will not stop talking. Esca does not cry out in pain, but between every blow continues his tirade, a long, obscene invective, every slur Marcus has ever heard, all directed against him. And if he can just make Esca stop, maybe it will be untrue, maybe it will be as if it had never happened, maybe he can make it all go away.

"—like that, harder, come on, _impudice_ —"

But Esca does not stop saying these awful things, and Marcus, terrified, hits him harder and harder, the blows raining down heavily. Esca is doing nothing to fight him, and there are long red weals along his shoulders now, bright and bloody where they cross and break the skin, and somehow it is not good enough, it can never be good enough, because it is too late, because it is all wrong, and there are tears running down Marcus' face and he hardly even cares.

He does not even know how long this continues, but eventually Esca's words slow and stop, and the only sound that issues from him is a hoarse, rasping breathing, panting like a wounded animal.

Marcus lets the vine-staff slip from his nerveless fingers and fall to the ground. It is over.

Esca's heaving back is bright and wet with blood, and under it, around the edges, a huge expanse of his skin is red and dark, already beginning to bruise. He does not move except to breathe.

After a while he speaks, and his voice is as raw as if he has been screaming all this time. "You have a good arm on you, Aquila. You hit harder than Viridio ever did, that's for certain."

Marcus does not trust himself to speak yet, and he leans heavily on the desk as Esca pulls himself stiffly to his feet, swaying. Esca has split his lip against the desk, and the blood on his face shines shockingly bright against the pale skin of his cheek and jaw. He has done this to Esca and everything, everything is gone now. Esca _knows_ and it is all wrong.

"Never," Marcus starts, intending to sound stern, but the words only come out of him weakly, a plea for mercy, and he doesn't even know who he is now, who he is to be saying this. "Never do that again."

Esca stares at him. Other than the obvious pain clouding his features, his expression is unreadable. "Understood."

"Go to the infirmary," he tries, and hopes this sounds like an order, but it does not, and Marcus knows he is no longer that centurion. Whoever he is now, it is not that man. The thought of the unknown should terrify him, but there is no room left in his heart for any more terror, or indeed anything other than a sad pale numbness. "Can you walk?"

Esca nods, slowly, and takes a few jerky, shuffling steps backwards, as though he is dragging himself over the ground by sheer will alone. "I can walk."

"Barley rations until the Ides," he adds, even though he knows it is not a punishment for Esca. It feels like something he should do, nonetheless. He does not know why. He does not know anything, anymore.

At the edge of the tent, Esca works at the fastenings for long moments, hissing in pain, until the flaps fall open. He stands there, and outlined in the sun as he is, Marcus cannot see his face.

"I wouldn't have told anyone, you know." Esca's voice is quiet. "I won't tell anyone."

And then he is gone, and Marcus sinks down onto the floor next to his desk, shaking and drained. He puts his hand on the desk to ease himself down so he does not quite fall. It is where Esca was. There is a dark smear of Esca's blood, now, drying on his wrist, and Marcus stares at it and wants to cry again. A good Roman should not, not about this.

But clearly he is not one of them, is he? He is so many awful things, all the things Esca has said. His heart is made of lies and secrets and shame, and he knows Esca hates him for it now. He hates himself for it. There is nothing left.


	3. Chapter 3

Life goes on, as it must, but Marcus feels that somehow, someone else is living his life for him, and he is only watching someone else's actions as he stands and strips out of his own clothing, exchanging his British braccae and sleeved tunic for a sleeveless Roman one. He leaves the clothes on the floor near Esca's own tunic, which Esca did not even manage to take with him when he left; Marcus has left him to walk across the camp bare to the waist, with everyone seeing the damage he has wrought. The tent is messy, which Marcus usually cannot abide, but it does not matter. Nothing matters, now.

He goes to the baths outside the walls, he thinks. That must be what he decided to do, but he finds he does not remember anything between standing in his tent and then sitting in the hot water of the caldarium, an entire span of time gone missing from his mind.

He reports to Suilius, and it is as if someone else is talking, nodding and smiling and saying all the right things to the tribune. Suilius is hardly even cross with him when he describes how Esca killed the man of the Caledonii.

"Oh, I won't discipline you for it, centurion," he says, jovially, taking the look on Marcus' face to be fear for himself, for his own fate. Marcus almost wishes the man would discipline him. Officers are hardly ever beaten; no, the punishment for him would be public shaming, the thought of which he hates most of all, but he deserves it. He deserves everything.

"You won't?"

Suilius waves a generous hand. "You are new, and it is understandable that you did not quite understand yet how tightly you must hold the leash on these barbarians. I will let it go this once, but look to your optio for aid, hmm? He has more experience in these things than do you."

"Sir," Marcus acknowledges, throat tight. Laetinianus knows nothing except his own greed and hatred. 

It is Laetinianus who finds Marcus when he returns to camp in the twilight; the man is smiling and smiling as though he wants to be Marcus' best friend. They stand together at the outskirts of the camp. The rest of the century looks over at them occasionally. They look at him with respect, still, but a new kind of respect, one mixed with fear and an odd kind of disdain. No one has kind words for him in British, the way they were greeting him yesterday; no, he is a Roman now. He is not one of them. To prove it, here he is with Laetinianus.

"Hail, centurion!" the man says, his tone loud and almost gleeful. His words are not slurred yet; he is only jubilantly drunk. It was probably a good evening for him. "Showed Esca who was truly his commander, eh, did you? He is one who deserves to be beaten." _Vapulo_. The word trips off his tongue like it is nothing.

Marcus stares bleakly at his optio and detests everything about him. "He's in the infirmary now." The words come from him with no feeling. It is merely a fact about the world.

Laetinianus laughs to hear it. "Excellent! Glad to hear you've finally taken charge, sir. I was worried to think you might be getting soft on the barbarians, and we can't have that, can we?"

_Soft_. Esca called him that, but a few hours ago. Taunted him with it, and he was right, he was right—

Marcus staggers a little and finally replies. "No, we can't, I suppose."

"Are you feeling all right, sir?" The look in his optio's eyes might actually be concern.

"Fine."

"And here I was afraid you wouldn't hit him hard enough," Laetinianus continues, and he is smiling again. How can he possibly think he should tell Marcus this? That Marcus would agree with him? Perhaps he is more drunk than he appears. "He needs the hardest beating he can get, that one. Or, no, you know what he needs?"

He shouldn't ask. He shouldn't. "What?"

"The man's a furcifer in the truest sense, sir," Laetinianus says, seeming to relish the very sound of the word. Cross-bearer. "It's a shame there's no discipline like in the old days, proper discipline, when we'd kill a man for insubordination, eh? I'd crucify him myself. But, no, they say, it is a waste of a good soldier. It wouldn't be a waste, not with him. He is too clever by half, mocking and horrible. He dishonors Rome by his very existence; he dishonors the century and you."

Marcus is still staring, having thought of absolutely no reply; Laetinianus takes this as his cue to keep talking. Marcus feels his muscles tense, his hands clench into fists, but the sensation is distant, as if his body belongs to someone else.

"He was only trying to impress you before so you would not beat him, I am sure," Laetinianus says, and there is something cold and horrible in his eyes. "Did you think he truly liked you? Did you think you knew him? You don't. Did he ever tell you about that mission? Three years ago? He didn't, did he? Oh, you wouldn't be so trusting if you knew. It should have been Esca who died then. I wish it had been him instead, the wretched, vile—"

The sound of Marcus' fist as it connects with Laetinianus' jaw is unexpectedly loud; the sound of Laetinianus hitting the ground is duller, but still noticeable.

Marcus looks down at him and feels nothing. "If you ever say anything like that again about Esca, about anyone, I will beat you myself."

He turns and walks away.

Marcus ought to be satisfied. He isn't. He is a monster. He can only hurt people.

* * *

That night Marcus lies awake in his tent for hours. He can think only of Esca, no doubt trying to do the same on some pitiful pallet in the infirmary. He is probably curled on his side now, miserable, attempting to keep anything off his back. The pain is likely keeping him from sleep. Marcus can picture this all too vividly. And if Esca is not sleeping, why then should Marcus?

Sleep comes to Marcus eventually, as it must, and in sleep it seems to him that he sees Esca. In his dream it is as though the day, this horrible day, has never happened. Esca smiles at him and kisses him joyfully, and as their lips meet Marcus knows it is a dream but clings to it with the fierce, bittersweet wish that it could be reality. He brings his arms up to embrace Esca. His hands touch wetness, and horrified, he pulls them away to see blood coating his palms, and Esca grows paler, taller, like one of the shades of the dead, and Esca is laughing now, an awful, mocking sound—

Marcus wakes up, gasping for air, his heart pounding as if it will burst.

He does not try to sleep again.

In the morning there are no new orders; from Suilius' words it seems that he should not expect any until at least the Ides, which are of course eight days away. He lets the soldiers do whatever they want. He doesn't care.

And all he can think about is Esca. The numbness of earlier has now transformed into a strange mix of concern and absolute terror. Is Esca all right? Is he healing? What if his wounds have taken an infection? He could die from this. Marcus wants more than anything to see him, to see for himself that Esca is healing well, but at the same time he tries to picture what he might say to Esca, or what Esca might say to him, and there is only an empty, fearful void. He cannot bear to speak to the man.

An hour passes, then two, and the sun moves ever higher in the sky.

He is being an idiot.

He will just go, he decides, standing up, and maybe then he can put Esca out of his mind. He will inquire about his condition. He does not even have to see the man. Besides, he can return Esca's tunic to him.

The infirmary is a good distance away, at the main part of the garrison rather than in the temporary tented camps, and as such it is fully built in stone, like a proper building. Marcus enters the courtyard and is immediately scrutinized by a rather bossy, rather round man.

He crumples the tunic up in his hands and meets the man's stare. "Hail."

"How may I assist you?" The surgeon's voice, officious, is Greek-accented. His eyes narrow as though, having checked Marcus for illness and having found none, he has deemed him an interloper. But he must see that Marcus is wearing his weapons belted in the manner of officers, even though Marcus is not bearing his vine-staff. Marcus never wants to carry the thing again. If the man does notice Marcus' rank, it doesn't seem to affect the way he glares at him.

"I've come to see one of your patients," Marcus says, perhaps more hesitantly than he should have. "A scout from the sixth century, name of Esca. He would have come in yesterday." It occurs to him that perhaps Esca was not in a state to give his name. "Pale hair, built lightly, about this high—" he indicates Esca's general size— "with one of those tattoos on his arm." He winces to even think of the rest, but he has to say it. "Wounds on his back."

The man seems to brighten in recognition. "Yesterday? There were some injuries from skirmishes, and—oh, you mean the one whose centurion nearly took the hide off him, eh?"

Marcus only trusts himself to nod yes; he dares not speak.

"I'll tell you the same thing I told his tent-mates yesterday evening, then," the man continues, with the acid tone of the put-upon army surgeon whose job is constantly being interfered with. "You shouldn't see him. Needs his rest to heal, from a beating like that. And the fall certainly didn't help matters."

Something within Marcus twists, clenches, and then drops. "The fall?"

The surgeon sniffs at him as though this is something he ought to have known. "Well, it's no surprise, is it, with a beating as hard as that one? Tried to walk all the way here, and made it about halfway before he collapsed on the road. One of the messengers going out to Trimontium found him. He wouldn't say, but I gather his brute of a centurion ordered him to walk it."

"Oh."

_He told me he was fine_ , Marcus wants to say, but bites back the words. Did he really think Esca would tell him the truth?

"So I'd say that even if people let him alone—" the man glares at Marcus— "and he does continue to heal properly, I wouldn't expect him on duty before the Ides. And he isn't awake now, so you might as well leave."

"I don't want to talk to him," Marcus pleads, persisting even though he is beginning to feel more and more wretched, knowing that he, unknowing, wounded Esca even more. "I only want to see him. I will not wake him, I promise."

The surgeon looks unimpressed. "His tent-mates swore the same thing. Why should I believe you?"

"I'm not one of his tent-mates."

"Oh?" The surgeon seems, for the first time, to take in the signs of Marcus' rank, and Marcus sees his eyes narrow as he very probably begins to wonder why an officer is here visiting some scout of no importance. "And you are?"

Marcus swallows. "Aquila. His centurion."

"The very one who—?"

He nods, miserably, stopping the man's words with his motion. He knows he must look bizarre in his pain, given the circumstances. "I will not hurt him." _More than I already have_. "I swear it, I call the gods to witness. But I have to see him for myself. I have to know how he is. Please. I beg you."

Whatever look is in Marcus' eyes now, it makes the surgeon step back, startled, and concede where he is clearly not accustomed to.

"As long as you don't wake him."

"I will not," Marcus vows. It is an easy vow to make, for he certainly does not wish to talk to Esca. "I want him to heal. Do whatever is necessary, even if that means keeping him past the Ides. He is—" Marcus is not quite sure what he will say until he says it— "very important to me."

The man blinks curiously a few times, as if he wants to ask why then has Marcus beaten him bloody if he is so important, but he just as clearly decides it is not worth the trouble of asking. He waves a hand at one of the rooms. "He's in there."

"Thank you. May the gods bless you, as you have merited," Marcus says, fervently, and means every word of it.

It does not take him long at all to find Esca; the wounded on their pallets ought by all rights to look similar to each other, but it seems that in the span of time he has known Esca he has become aware of his body to such an extent that it is the most obvious thing in the world when one formless mass twisted under blankets is not the man he was looking for. Marcus tries not to think about what this awareness might mean for him; there is surely something unnatural about it. Esca is hardly someone whom he should know so intimately, not when they have barely even touched.

At any rate, Esca is on a pallet in the furthest corner from the doorway, lying on his stomach, his head turned in Marcus' direction, pressed into the pillow as he sleeps. His wounds have been cleaned and bandaged—Marcus is briefly grateful that he does not have to see them—and there is more bruising on the side of Esca's face than he remembers from yesterday, but perhaps that was from the fall. Which is his fault too, he knows, fighting back the guilt and shame.

He secretly hoped Esca would look peaceful in his sleep, but this is not to be. Esca's face is knotted in pain and he twitches, restless; he is probably only sleeping lightly, with the discomfort he must be feeling now. Knowing this does not make Marcus feel any better, but perhaps he does not deserve to.

Not sure what else to do, he puts the folded tunic on the bed next to Esca, and is surprised when Esca, still asleep, reaches out for it and clutches it to him. It is probably something familiar, even in sleep. He considers accompanying it with the dagger Esca had given him—for surely whatever it represented has now been destroyed between them—but even with his hand on the hilt for long moments, he cannot quite make himself do it. Esca would know he had been here, and besides, he is not so cowardly that he cannot discuss that when the man is awake. If he is going to do that, it can at least wait until later.

But even Marcus is surprised at his own actions when he reaches out to push an errant lock of hair off Esca's forehead. He knows he should not, but he cannot help himself. With Esca asleep, he can almost pretend that nothing of yesterday ever happened, that Esca never said those cruel words to him. Esca's skin is cool to the touch—he has not taken an infection yet, and Marcus will make an offering to Aesculapius that he should not—and oddly soft for a man who has lived such a hard life. And Marcus wishes— he wishes he could touch him more. But he cannot, now.

"I'm sorry." 

He mouths the words without sound, as Esca showed him to for scouting, so that Esca will not wake. He does not even know all of what he is apologizing for. The beating, yes, certainly. The fact that everything had to happen like this.

Esca stirs a little at that, or seems to, and Marcus hastily pulls his fingers away. He has been here long enough, and he doesn't want to chance Esca waking and seeing him here. But Esca is healing, and that will have to be good enough.

* * *

Knowing that Esca is mending, however slowly, is the one thing that makes the long days of blankness that follow at all bearable, while simultaneously filling him with dread for the day that Esca will finally return, for he still does not know what they will be to each other. What do you say to the man who knows all your secrets and despises you for them?

Laetinianus, the bruise barely visible on his skin, manages to school his face into something approaching proper courtesy every time he sees Marcus, but he does not see him except when Marcus comes to him to relay the continued lack of orders every morning. Marcus knows he ought to disapprove of this state of affairs, but he cannot bring himself to care. He does notice him insulting the men less, though—but perhaps it is only that he does not now do it in Marcus' hearing.

And there are whisperings among the men, mostly in British, things he cannot help overhearing:

"—didn't you hear? The Votadini struck again yesterday."

"How many more did they kill?"

"A hundred, I heard, women and children all."

And then the speakers would look about furtively and move on. None of these words are in the official orders, but Marcus begins to understand what is going on. He wouldn't have understood a month ago—Britons were Britons, weren't they?—but gradually it begins to come clear. The different tribes are often at each others' throats, and (the detail that has finally eluded him) do not act as the same tribe. Indeed, they all believe different things. So while in fact some Votadini are beginning to make an uneasy peace with Rome, further to the east, these ones are not, and they are taking it out on those of the Selgovae who might be thinking about it. Not, of course, those who are already allied—those clans, Marcus comes to see, Rome would defend—but to discourage those who might think about forming treaties with Rome. It is brutal, but then, so is the rest of the world.

This is why orders have not come, then: they are waiting for an attack on someone who matters to Rome. But Marcus' men are Britons, and so their hearts, if not their sworn oaths, are not always that simple. Marcus continues to hope that Eonus was right when he said all of Marcus' men came from the south; those tribes are likely to be more loyal. And so they seem to be, so far, but it does not mean the violence is not disturbing.

It is somewhere around the fourth day before the Ides—the dates become hazy with nothing to fill them—that Sintorix comes to see him in his tent, unasked for. It is strange to see him; he is one of the few in Esca's squad whom Marcus hardly knows yet. After standing quietly for some moments, murmurs a question in British, to which Marcus can only pick out Esca's name.

Something stills within him and tightens in a kind of fear; how is it that anyone should be asking him about Esca? His first horrible thought is that perhaps Esca had told them all, as he said he might—

Marcus pushes the thoughts away. "I beg your pardon; I did not understand all those words."

"Oh." Sintorix looks apologetic. "I was only saying that we—that would be the squad, sir—we were hoping you might come with us to see Esca, if the surgeon will permit it. Carantos asked for word yesterday, but they would not let him see him, and we thought that perhaps if you accompanied us, as an officer—"

"I—" Marcus shakes his head in instant denial. "He will not want to see me."

Sintorix' brow furrows, confused. "It was only a beating, sir, if that is your concern; I am sure Esca has had worse and would not hold it against you. He understands he had to have it. He told us so before it happened. Besides, it is obvious he likes you; of course he will want to see you."

_No_ , Marcus thinks. _He doesn't like me_. But he cannot very well say this without explaining Esca's words, and he most certainly will not do that. And the easy reassurance of Esca's tent-mate only makes him feel worse about it. They do not understand. Esca may have talked to them, but that was before— before everything.

Marcus sighs. "I cannot."

Sintorix' words are hesitant. "I— we thought you might feel better if you saw him yourself, sir."

Is his behavior that noticeable? Marcus draws himself up, stung by the sudden shame of it. If the men have marked a difference, he must try harder not to give into this.

"I thank you for your concern." He enunciates each word neatly. "But I will remain here. If the surgeons do not let you in, have them read this—" he scrawls some semblance of a request onto the closest tablet and folds it, handing it to Sintorix— "and they ought to grant you your request; you will have the permission of an officer."

Sintorix takes the tablet gratefully, though he looks bewildered. "I will, sir. Is there any message you would like us to pass on?"

There are so many messages. Marcus stares stonily out at the camp, seeing nothing. "No, thank you."

When the men return later, they do not speak to him, and he knows he was right; Esca had no words for him either.

More days pass in this manner; it draws closer and closer to the Ides, but they still have no orders, though the mutterings about the depredations of the Votadini grow louder. Marcus does not offer to Aesculapius as he had thought he might; there is no proper temple here—neither to him, nor to Apollo, nor to any god at all. Truly they are in the wilderness. It is only a temporary camp, after all. The best he can do is set aside a cake from one of his meals; he swears he will give the god better, one day, should Esca be healed.

Then it is the Ides, and there are no orders, and worse, no Esca; the surgeon had said Esca ought to be healed by now. He considers going to see him, and spends an alarming amount of time pacing the bounds of the camp before reining himself in and going to sharpen his weapons, for he knows from the whisperings that orders should come soon. He makes the mistake of challenging Carantos to a practice fight, and is summarily defeated. He hadn't really had his mind on the fight anyway.

The next morning begins the long stretch of time toward the Kalends, and Marcus is not really expecting, after all this time, to have something happen as he slides on his gladius and dagger and heads off to the morning assembly. But today, it seems, is the day, for the rest of the centurions are twitchy with excited, nervous energy, and Suilius paces and smiles. He is a man who exults in giving orders and having them be obeyed.

"You have heard of the Votadini's presence, no doubt," Suilius begins, "and that of the Caledonii."

Marcus is paying attention now—he can't help the shudder that passes through him, having heard the name—although he does not think the Caledonii will be a neutral topic for him for a long while yet.

Suilius goes on to explain that now, finally, the Votadini have attacked one of the clans that has made some alliance with Rome— "and therefore, we are to attack them. I have asked that this be the duty of the scouts, and specifically of your century, Aquila, because your men, barbarians themselves, have knowledge of how to act covertly, to kill in ways other than on the battle-line."

In other words, Marcus thinks sourly, he thinks all of the Britons are dishonorable fighters who will not meet a man fairly, but he wants them to hide in the forest and fight dishonorably for Rome. A fancy trick, that. And once they have taken out as many as they can, a proper line of infantry will meet them, later.

"Sir," Marcus says, after it seems that Suilius is done explaining how they are to underhandedly dispose of the Votadini by any means necessary, and the tribune swivels his head to stare at him with the look of one who does not expect interruptions, "what if we meet the Caledonii as well?"

Suilius snorts; the distinction is clearly unimportant. "Barbarians are barbarians. If the Caledonii fight you, kill them." But there is something in his tone, hidden there, and Marcus knows there is something about this that he is missing.

And Marcus wants to laugh at the cruel joke of it; the very thing he beat Esca for is now, perhaps, permitted. But he says nothing as the assembly is dismissed and merely heads back to his century to relay the orders. Laetinianus seems a little less angry, but that could be his imagination. From the way his optio looks, it seems that he too has his own thoughts about the mission; what had Suilius been trying to tell them?

It is as he is pacing the columns of men and explaining the orders, trying to come up with something stirring to say, that he sees Carantos at the head of the line with the decani, shifting his weight and looking profoundly uncomfortable. The men all look uncomfortable, now that he notices it; it is most odd. And it is then that it occurs to him: Esca is not here. They will have to embark on this mission without him. Someone else must lead his squad, and Carantos plainly does not desire to. They will have to think of something, Marcus thinks frantically as he orders the men to ready their gear, and he runs through what he knows of the rest of the squad in his head. Paetinus might be a good choice, but he is more Roman, and they may not trust him as they would trust Esca. Marcus wishes he knew more of whatever oaths they swore to him, but he knows this is not something he can ask anyone.

As he stands lost in his thoughts, he is dimly aware of someone approaching, saluting silently. He looks up, and— 

It is Esca.

His face is healed, at least, and Marcus is pathetically grateful for that much. He will not have to feel ashamed every time he looks at him. Not that he should look at him, not that he should ever— Marcus realizes abruptly that he is staring, that he has been staring for far too long, and that neither of them have said anything yet. Esca stares back, like he doesn't know what to say either, and his mouth has the smallest hint of a curve in it, as though he smiled just before Marcus looked at him. He holds himself tense, unsure, the picture of a man who wants to run.

"Cleared for duty," Esca says, quietly, and something within Marcus twists in fear and pleasure both. How ridiculous is it that he's missed the sound of Esca's voice? Very, he tells himself, knowing now what the man thinks of him.

Marcus gives a brisk nod. He is the man's centurion. Esca is only a soldier, like any of his other soldiers. This he must remember.

"That is—" he fumbles for words— "good to hear."

Esca looks around, observing the state of the camp. "We have orders, I gather?"

Marcus nods again, feeling awkward already. "We are to attack the Votadini. Secretly, and kill as many as we can."

"Ah." Esca's eyebrows raise as he looks enlightened; it is the first real movement Marcus has seen him make. "I had been wondering when the tribune would try to get us killed again. It has been a few months." His voice is dry, as if this is some sort of emotionless fact. "This may be my fault."

The strange way that Suilius gave the orders, the way Laetinianus and the men looked when he repeated them—it all snaps into an awful clarity. Somehow he has to ask the question anyway.

"What do you mean?"

Esca still stares at him, still holds himself stiffly. "It is very difficult, one might say, to ambush warriors without them noticing. Even more so when we are not primarily a unit of skirmishers. We tend—" he pauses, as if thinking of the best way to phrase this— "to take casualties."

"The tribune knows this?" It doesn't make sense. "Surely there are units with more training in this kind of warfare."

"There are." Esca looks at him as if the rest of the answer ought to be obvious—and Marcus could almost be happy at this sign of life in him if not for the turn the conversation has taken—and then, relenting, clearly decides to answer him anyway. "They are not Britons."

And suddenly Marcus understands the entire horrible plan. They are nothing more than warm bodies, to be thrown headlong at the enemy in the hope that they might take some of the enemy with them, as one might toss a spear that one does not care to retrieve. When the century is all done, the precious troops—possibly even an actual detachment from the Sixth—will be there to kill any remaining Votadini. But Suilius will spend the scouts' lives as it pleases him; there are more scouts than just Marcus' century, after all, and certainly ones more obedient to the tribune's wishes. And Marcus himself may have put this idea in the tribune's head, by telling him about Esca's insubordination.

"Oh." He doesn't even know what to say, what to do. He has never trained for this. "What should I do?" he asks, and then winces, cursing himself for how quickly he has already put himself in Esca's hands. "What would your last commander have done?"

Esca breathes out harshly; the sound is not quite a laugh, but even that motion is done slowly, with the suggestion that Marcus does not merit actual laughter yet. He must hate Marcus a great deal now. "Viridio? Nothing helpful, I'm afraid. This was how he died."

"I don't think we should do that." Marcus clenches his fists, helpless.

Esca almost—almost!—smiles and then seems to think better of it, and Marcus' heart soars high, then falls, harder than Icarus in the tale. In some ways Esca is as the sun, indeed. Too close, and one is burned.

"I might be able to help," Esca says, thoughtfully, "although I've never planned this sort of thing before. But I have some tactical suggestions. We could die in new and different ways from the usual ones, at least. But you have to—" and here he wavers— "cede me some authority, in the field."

He has a horrible thought then, as Esca's request twists together with his awful taunting, worse because it is true. _Yes, yes, command me_. Worse still because even now he wants Esca, even now he is crying out for a man who hates him, who knows him and hates him for it.

He snaps out his reply more harshly than he intends. "And if I do not?"

"Then we die."

"Unacceptable."

And Esca stares up at him, expressionless. "Then trust me, centurion. Will you trust me?"

"I—"

The rest of the words—he doesn't even know what he was going to say—lodge in Marcus' throat. Does he trust Esca? He doesn't know.

He can't say anything, and Esca stares at him for a long moment, then salutes, and turns, and it is then that Marcus realizes why Esca was holding himself still before. It is not that he is being impolite or distant—or rather, if he is, it is not the complete reason. He must have been holding because anything else would pain him.

Esca moves slowly, his usual grace all but absent, and it is clear that he is walking wounded. Marcus has done this to him, and he is here anyway, offering himself up. He came back for this fight, already hurt, and if Marcus does not find a way to protect them in battle Esca will surely be hurt again, or worse— or worse—

He can't even think it.

"Yes."

The word comes out strangled from his own throat, but he has said it, and he thinks he sees Esca smile once before Esca turns away again. He must trust him again. There is no other choice.

* * *

Marcus stares at the handful of dirt, then at the cup from his mess kit, filled with water, then back at the dirt.

"Mud." He feels his hope ebb away as he says it. "This is your plan to keep everyone from getting killed. Mud."

"Some of the northern tribes wear it in battle, I hear," Esca says, dropping dirt into his own cup and frowning at the mixture. "But this is only a part of it. The moon will be full in a few days, and it would help our goals if the Votadini do not see us so clearly in the dark. Or the daytime."

"Will it truly help?"

Esca mixes the mud in his cup and eyes him as though he thinks the question frivolous. "Anything will help. Sir." Seeing that Marcus must need some convincing, he adds, "I've told everyone I can find. I would that the idea had occurred to me before we split the century." 

Finding them, of course, was a labor in itself—for the century, and then the squads, have slowly disappeared among the trees, according to the best plan he could come up with. He tried to tell them as much of the orders as he could in British, haltingly, but then Esca stepped in and said something and Marcus is not entirely certain where they all went, other than the ones directly involved in this planned attack. Esca knows, though. And Laetinianus is somewhere around here, with Camulorix and his men, and Marcus only knows that because his tracks were plain to see. Marcus hopes this relative ease at hiding is a good sign for the success of their future plans.

"We'll see them for the ambush, then," Marcus concludes. He feels vaguely disloyal saying words like that, when it is he who is plotting them. But the only way to truly best Britons is to fight as they do.

And so he smears the mud on his face and neck and hands, as Esca does the same. It is awful, and everything properly civilized in Marcus recoils as well at covering himself in dirt. Knowing that he will have to stay this way for the immediate future hardly makes him feel any better about it. Oh, it is no wonder this business is for Britons. They can hardly be used to the niceties of daily hygiene, he thinks, and then regrets the thought: none of the Britons he has met have ever been any less clean than Romans, regardless of what most people think of barbarians in general.

Esca is staring at him with a strange look on his face. "You missed some," he says, quietly, and he reaches out a dark hand to Marcus' cheek. 

Marcus cannot stop the shiver that passes through him as Esca touches him, his palm warm even through the layers of grime. He still wants Esca, and Esca must know it, and he cannot stand this.

"I am not asking you to trust me as a friend," Esca says, after a long moment, dropping his hand. It is the first thing Esca has said to him that is not about the Votadini since he came back, and Marcus' heart twists to hear it. "I know I have done nothing to earn that from you, and indeed I have done everything to destroy it, if ever you wanted to call me friend before." He draws a shuddering breath.

"Esca—" he starts, and then stops. He doesn't know what to say. They have hurt each other badly, and it is only that for one of them the wounds happen to be visible.

Esca holds up his hand, and Marcus waits. "I only ask that you trust me as a soldier. No more than that. And in a few days, if we live through this—"

Marcus nods mutely. Esca has only said _if_ , and if their lives are in as much peril as Esca seems to think, he will need every bit of concentration to survive, and so will Esca. They cannot be distracted by feelings.

"I understand."

Esca smiles, then, but the smile does not reach his eyes. Nonetheless, Marcus endeavors to fix it in his mind. If they are fated to die, if such is the case, he wants to remember the way Esca smiles, even if it cannot be a happy one.

And he does remember the look on Esca's face, later, when they are in the trees in the night. The plan here is relatively simple: the trail, the way that the Votadini ought to come, winds and cuts through a narrow pass, with the hillside sloping up almost as the turf wall of a fort might, and with trees for cover besides. The Votadini will ride through, here, forced to go one by one where the path is at its thinnest, and they, bows at the ready, will pick them off while remaining hidden. It is everything a Roman might despise, might call dishonorable. It does not bother Marcus as much as it would have, except to know that other Romans would despise him for doing it.

Though he cannot see them, he knows that all along the hillside, in the trees and behind bushes, are his century's best archers—or at least the men whom Esca assured him were the best shots. He has to trust Esca in this, and so Esca picked the men. Igennus. Inam. Gavo. Paetinus. Crimos. Many, many others whose names he has hardly learned, and—to Marcus' surprise—Laetinianus, who swore he had a good hand with a bow, and did not even sneer when Esca asked him. And Esca as well as Marcus himself, of course. Not that Marcus is anywhere near good with this draw, but he would not leave his men to face this alone. Perhaps the only advantage to the dirt he is still covered in is that the grit is preventing his sweaty, nervous hands from slipping too much on the bow.

From not too far away, harnesses jingle and one horse neighs to another. The Votadini are being very quiet, certainly, but they cannot ride in absolute silence. It will not be long now.

_I am going to fall out of this tree_ , he thinks, the words slow and distinct in his mind, and as he does his foot slips along the branch he thought he had been braced on. He was not trained for this kind of fighting, and if he falls it will be the death of him, and a reveal of their plan besides.

Above him, Esca is no more than a shadow amidst the branches. He can hardly make out the shape of the man, quiver along his side and bow in his hands, every line of his stance fixed intently upon their goal.

And then Esca looks down and seems to sense his distress, before Marcus can even open his mouth, not that he should so much as make a sound in this situation. As he watches, Esca relaxes, slinging his bow behind him, and then he moves down to where Marcus is, picking his way silently from branch to branch, as though this is all completely natural to him, as though he is a dryad whose very home is in the trees. That is a ridiculous comparison, Marcus thinks, but knowing that does not stop him thinking it.

When he reaches him, Esca's hands on him are steady and bracing; Marcus is sure Esca can feel him shaking with the exertion required not to fall. Esca could push him, if he wanted. It would be easy, and then it would all be over. Esca will not let him fall. He believes this. He must believe this.

Esca touches his shoulder first, to warn him of his presence, and then slides his arm down along Marcus' side—and if Marcus' shaking now is from something other than exertion, too, who will know of it?—to wrap his hand around Marcus' leg, a suggestion of movement.

Marcus slides his leg back as Esca suggested and finds that there is another branch below the one he is on, in just the right place for a secure foothold. He will not fall. He cannot help but smile, though the mud on his face cracks painfully as he does so. With a few more nudges, pressing up against him here and there in the dark, Esca has him shifted into a position that is altogether much more comfortable, is far less precarious, and even offers a better view of the trail.

He cannot afford now to think about how Esca's body is hot against his in the chill of the night, Esca's fingers like a brand on his shoulder, pulling him closer for a message. But if he is to die, a tiny voice within him says, at least he will have died knowing this much: whatever Esca thinks of him, he does not hate him that much, he does not want him dead. And no doubt it will only be some last word of strategy.

Esca's voice in his ear is the barest of breaths. "Don't fall, Aquila." The tone is almost fond, but with an undercurrent of fear. There is nothing mocking or hidden here; when they might die, it seems, Esca will speak the truth. "I'd miss you if you fell."

He hopes that wasn't Esca trying to make him fall out of the tree in surprise, because Marcus goes hot all over and digs his fingers in the bark to stay upright. Esca's hand on his shoulder tenses. They are not to talk about this, not now; Esca had said, and yet, here he is. Here they are. And it seems that despite his words, Esca does not hate him.

Marcus swallows and parts with the barest scrap of his own truth. "As would I."

Something in him lightens as he says it. He cares for Esca, even after everything. This is not only lust, even though the lust itself is terrifying in its intensity and perversity both. This is something he cannot think about. He cannot even name it. He will not think about this.

And though it ought not to surprise Esca, who knows all his secrets, it seems to. Perhaps he has said it strangely. Perhaps Esca knows things that are secret from him. For Esca jerks a little, startled, and then his lips part in a smile, the only thing in the tree that isn't dark.

"First shot is yours," Esca whispers, finally. "Make them wait for it."

Marcus nods, and Esca touches his hand, fingertips brushing against the back of his hand ever so lightly, before he climbs back up to his higher perch.

He nocks an arrow to the bowstring now that he is firmly braced and can free his hands. He can do this. He must do this. They will succeed, because now he knows his life afterwards holds promise, and the gods to whom he has prayed would not be so cruel as to deny him it. He has done the right things, made the appropriate pleasing offerings, had the omens read, and they will listen.

The first of the Votadini crest the far hill and come into the pass. The man at the lead is huge, red-haired as many of the northern tribes are, riding a compact gray that seems almost too small for his bulk, and behind him more men ride on darker horses. Marcus draws in the silence, aiming for the man's throat—at this distance he will certainly not miss—and waits. He holds at half-draw. Out of the corner of his eye, Esca, above him, slides an arrow slowly out of his quiver.

He waits. He waits. There are more Votadini behind them, and for this to work, as many as can be need to be in the pass. The more of them they can take by surprise, the better. The first man has almost reached the last of the rocks, almost to the end of the pass. None of them are armored, though indeed they are armed—the century must kill them first, and quickly.

He has a clear shot. With but a few more long strides, the first horse will be past their trap, and his rider with him. This is it. Marcus counts off the breaths in his head as he draws and aims. 

Three.

Two.

The world seems to still, waiting.

One.

Marcus opens his hand, and the arrow flies, a true course. The first rider tumbles and falls.

After that, things happen very, very quickly, in the strange blur of combat in which there are so many things that one cannot possibly know them all, but it is fast and slow at the same time. He can feel every draw, the bow in his hand, as if it takes a lifetime, but down below him men are yelling and there are the frightened screams of wounded horses, and the sight of flailing hooves and limbs as men and beasts fall with great speed.

Some time later—he can no longer reckon time—he is scrambling down the tree, aware of Esca just behind him as if they two were bound together, drawing his dagger to continue the fray on the ground. It is so easy. He kicks one man, stabs another, shoves a third into Inam's path—for they are all on the ground now, and they must not let the enemy escape.

"Centurion, a man on your right!" someone calls out, urgent, and the sentence is half-British and half-Latin, and he is grateful now to have learned even some British.

Marcus turns just in time to see a huge, hulking man with a wicked-looking sword, far too close, intent on him, and he has only a dagger, but somehow he knows he will not die from this—

Esca, hands filled with gleaming metal in the moonlight, slams into the swordsman, taking him to the blood-soaked earth, adding more blood to it, almost black in the night. Esca's face, smeared with yet more dirt and blood, is intent, but he looks to be wincing with pain.

"Esca—!"

Esca looks up at Marcus and grins like a predator. "I'm fine. You—" he pushes the body away— "need someone to guard your flank, Aquila."

It was not quite an offer, the way he said it, but Esca does not leave his side through the rest of the fighting, and Marcus knows he meant it just the same. Esca has not yet regained all of his usual skill, and he flashes Marcus a smile or two every time Marcus fends off someone whom he knows Esca could otherwise have managed. And Marcus, for his part, is obviously too used to fighting armored, with shields and formations. It seems they need to guard each other.

And they fight, and they fight, and he thinks Vatto takes a hit in the same arm he was wounded in before, and Paetinus, when he sees him, has blood streaming down his face, but he cannot attend to these things, for there is the enemy, always more, screaming curses at them in British—

And just as suddenly, it is over. The only life in the pass is them. They are all alive, and none of them are even seriously wounded, Marcus discovers. The sky grows brighter and brighter, until it is dawn, and the strength that sustained him through battle deserts him, as it often does. He is drained. Esca, gray with exhaustion and, from his breathing, in some pain, slumps next to him, and the rest of the men beyond him. Laetinianus, though somehow managing to fight less than the rest of them, comes up and gives a brief salute, and even thanks Esca for the plan. Esca stares at him as though he expects the words to be some sort of strange new insult.

The rest of the century, held in reserve, will arrive later to relieve them, to give them a rest. They need not stand watch for long, and Marcus is grateful that this part of the plan worked.

"We're alive," Esca breathes, smiling as though he cannot believe this.

Marcus laughs to hear it. He looks over at Esca, every visible inch of whom is thoroughly coated in dirt and drying blood, and he thinks he has never seen a more beautiful sight.

_You saved me_ , he thinks, over and over. _I trusted you and you saved my life_. He cannot say these words, for fear that admitting them might let others escape, words he does not even know and cannot think. But for now, in this one moment, it is enough. They both live.

* * *

"I can't believe it," Laetinianus is saying, over and over, as they are all picking their way over rough ground to the nearest river. Word from the rest of the century is that there are a few more Votadini in their range, and they hold for messengers from the next century, the better to get an idea of their movement, before mounting an attack. In the meantime, they can at least wash the mud off. Or, Marcus revises his thought, they can wash the blood off before putting the mud back on. He is trying not to consider how much his skin itches.

Laetinianus' face is bright in unfeigned gratitude and joy, and for an instant Marcus almost, almost likes him.

"What can't you believe?"

Laetinianus glares at him as though the answer is obvious, and Marcus takes the thought back. "We all lived."

"This is unusual?" They have not taken casualties on any of the other missions so far, and it seems to Marcus that an ambush, well-executed, ought to be done with little to no loss of life. Then it occurs to him that perhaps the others were not so well-planned.

"Yes, of course." Laetinianus nods, and he still looks to be in a state of utter amazement. "We always had strategies before, of course, but they always fell apart, and the men never did quite so well, and they were always yelling strange things at each other in their barbarian language— in British." The man actually corrects himself.

Marcus can picture the scene all too easily. The plans were bad, drawn up by staid tacticians who had never seen this combat and thought in only the lines and circles and wedges of infantry, and the men on the ground here needed to change them to survive. And of course, many of them did not speak Latin well—they still do not, for all that the century is officially commanded in Latin—and no one could understand to speak to their commanders. 

There is a reason, after all, that this posting was supposed to be a disgrace to him. They were supposed to take losses. Perhaps even he was supposed to die, and Rome could quietly forget about the man who lost the Eagle upon the death of his son. It would be a kind of damnatio memoriae, like that of his Etrurian countryman a hundred years dead, the man from Volsinii whose name Marcus has never seen written and feels somehow he should not even know, let alone breathe aloud.

"I have learned some British," Marcus says, finally. "I feel that aided me." It saved his life when men thought to yell warnings in it, for certain. "As for the tactics, I cannot take credit for that."

"No?"

Marcus nods. "That was all Esca's doing." Ahead in the group, he sees the back of Esca's head move at the mention of his name. He knows Esca is listening, now. It is better than watching Laetinianus try not to sneer at the name.

Laetinianus settles on gaping astonishment. "I know he picked the archers, but... he did all of it? You are jesting. He is only an ordinary soldier, only a barbarian." Marcus gives him a look. "A Briton, I mean," he says, for somehow he has noted that Marcus does not like the word.

"Whoever he may be," Marcus replies, fierceness in his heart as he rises to Esca's defense, "he knows how to plan these attacks. And if the point of having a British century is that they know the land and the people and their fighting, it does us no good if we do not trust them to help us in this."

Laetinianus blinks a few times. "But with that much freedom, are you not worried that they might—"

"No." Marcus cuts him off. "They are Roman soldiers, just as you and I are. We must trust their loyalty, do you not see? The army took the risk of another revolt like that of the Batavi when they recruited these men and put them here. It is not for us to question the decision. Besides, these tribes are not theirs. They will not revolt, and they soldier better for us given some trust."

Laetinianus is looking at him as though he is mad for thinking this with such certainty, but he does not actually say so. Marcus considers this a vast improvement.

"Perhaps you could learn British," Marcus suggests.

"I have no head for languages," Laetinianus replies. "Though there are times, certainly, when it would have helped to know it." Marcus can tell that even this is a grudging admission for the man.

But still, Laetinianus is learning something.

And then they are at the river, and the entire group breaks up, checking for threats—there are none—before relaxing and splitting into even smaller groups, two or three here and there, descending to the stones at the side of the riverbank. It is a bright, warm day—though hardly as warm as it would be in Italia, certainly—and Marcus finds himself looking forward to the cool water.

Marcus does not know whether he should be surprised when he realizes that Esca is next to him on the bank, and that they are more or less secluded from the rest of the men, in earshot, certainly, but not in easy view. Marcus must have done this without even thinking, only letting the part of him that knows he desires to be near Esca to guide his actions, and he would feel shame for it, but Esca has not moved away. His presence, then, is not entirely displeasing to the man, and he takes heart in that.

"It is not as though I don't know I am a barbarian," Esca says, rather than saying anything normal like _hail_. It is his way to be so direct, Marcus has learned. "I do not use the word for myself, but you may as well call me it. Or have the optio call me it, I care not. You need not prevent him." But from his tone it is clear that he does care, that he does not even like to say it, and he is not looking at Marcus as he drops his gear on the bank.

Marcus frowns in thought, and then smiles as the perfect objection occurs to him. "Ah, but to me you are not a barbarian."

This earns him a confused stare from Esca. "I am not a Roman."

"I know." Marcus grins, pleased with his ingenuity in thought. "But that is not all the word means. It is how we use it, but it is not the meaning itself."

Esca is still staring, and some part of Marcus is secretly pleased that he has found something even clever Esca does not know. "I do not follow you."

"It is a word we have from the Greeks." Marcus explains. "As for them, they thought foreigners, those who did not speak Greek—they thought that they all said only nonsense, like _bar bar bar_. And thence came the word."

"That is still an insult," Esca says, frowning. "And I do not speak Greek."

"Yes, but you have taught me some of your language now." Marcus delivers his conclusion with pride. "I am learning as much as I can, and I know you are not speaking nonsense, therefore you cannot be a barbarian to me. Not ever." 

The ideal Roman would never think it, let alone say it—savages are always savages, after all—but Marcus is finding that the thought of that does not bother him as much as it used to. The Britons are not alien to him now. Esca is not a stranger. So it has happened, and this knowledge has even helped win him victory. He is changing, but maybe he is changing into someone better.

And Esca does smile at that, breaking out into a huge grin. It lasts for barely a breath, but Marcus cherishes every moment of it.

"That is very kindly put, Aquila," Esca says, and his eyes glint with happiness. "I will remember it."

Before Marcus can think to say anything in return, Esca is stripping off his tunic, then working at the tie of his braccae, and Marcus turns hastily, putting his own gear on the ground, in the shade of a tree, and hoping Esca does not see his face flushing red. This is ridiculous. He has been a soldier for years, and seen men in every state of dress, but he cannot bear to watch Esca. This is torture enough already, to watch him, and it would certainly be better the less of him he sees.

When he has made a show of fussing with his pack just so, and waited until the soft splashing noises signal Esca's descent into the water, he looks up, judging the moment safe.

He is wrong. Oh, it is not as bad as he feared (and not that he hoped for, he tells himself)—the water is high enough that he does not see any of Esca he has not seen before—but looking at Esca at all is enough to undo him. Water streams and shines down Esca's chest, washing the mud off, drawing attention to every muscle, the long, lean line of his torso. Esca has already ducked his head underwater, and shakes his head even as his hair plasters to his forehead. Bright-eyed, he laughs, and he is smiling again—

Marcus shuts his eyes against the sight and tries to think of something else. Poetry, always good. _Mênin aeide, thea, Pêlêiadeô Akhilêos_ —

"Going to come in?" Esca calls to him, happily. "The water is... bracing."

He can do this. It's only a bath. So he opens his eyes, pulls off his clothing as quickly as possible, and steps into the river, then gasps in shock as the water hits his skin. It is freezing.

It is not truly freezing, of course; it is much like stepping into a frigidarium without having had the benefit of the other pools and the invigorating exercise beforehand. He cannot stop himself from shivering. But in some ways it is welcome, for it means a distraction from thinking about Esca here, before him, but a few feet away. In the span of a few breaths he could be at Esca's side, he could touch him—

He wades in deeper and ducks his head under the water. The chill is painful, stabbing against his skin, but that does not help, for when he emerges Esca is grinning at him again, as if he himself is having a fine time in this cold.

"Bracing, eh?" he says, and finds that, despite himself, he is smiling back at Esca. It is much easier to smile with the mask of mud melting away.

Esca laughs. "There may be other words for it as well."

He forces himself to turn away—there is only so much of this he can take—and begins to try to scrub the ground-in dirt and blood from his skin. It is a difficult task, made more difficult by the supply breakdowns of the camp. For ordinarily, soldiers are issued oil for cleaning, but he was given none for this assignment, and no strigil besides, not that it would do him any good without oil. He will have to use only water and his hands. And he is still Roman enough that the thought of uncleanliness repels him.

He is vaguely aware, behind him, of Esca, a bright pale shape against the water, wading to the bank and grabbing something out of his pack. Did Esca bring oil somehow? He turns more, to see that Esca is holding in his hands a crumpled piece of cloth, no doubt a rag torn from some old and worn tunic. It seems that he had the foresight to anticipate this, at least.

Swallowing hard, he looks away again as Esca wipes all the dirt off his chest and arms, though the more rational part of Marcus' mind notes that Esca is doing a better job with his rag than he was alone.

From much closer than he had thought Esca was, Esca asks, in a voice that manages to be both matter-of-fact and oddly tentative at once, "Would you like me to scrub your back? I don't think you've reached all of the dirt."

Marcus' mouth goes dry, even though he knows Esca can mean nothing untoward by it, but he makes himself nod. "That would be welcome." In several ways, most of which he should not even contemplate.

And he knows Esca is going to touch him, but when Esca begins by bracing a cool hand, slick with water, on his shoulder, Marcus cannot stop himself from twitching and jumping at the touch. His heart lurches and races as though he were in battle, and he bites his lip that he might not gasp aloud.

Behind him, Esca chuckles softly, clearly taking the response for a soldier's long-practiced reflex. And it is, of course, but that's not all it is. Esca has to know that. He knows everything now, but Marcus is profoundly grateful that he does not speak of it.

"It's only me, Aquila," Esca murmurs, low and soothing, and Marcus can feel Esca tracing circles against his shoulder, with his thumb, where it meets his neck. "Do you ever relax, I wonder?"

It isn't really a question, but Marcus answers it. "Not if I want to stay alive." He is a soldier. He must be alert. He doesn't remember the last time he ever really felt unguarded, he realizes. Before he was in the army, perhaps. One cannot even truly rest in sleep; he has learned to wake at an instant, having heard a trumpet or order or a whisper of the enemy moving through the countryside.

Another laugh. "Fair enough." And Esca's breath, close on his ear, makes him shiver again. Esca is being polite; it is only a polite question, and he is only washing his back to do him a favor, and Marcus is abusing all of that by reacting as if it is something it cannot be.

Esca brings his other hand up then, the one with the cloth, and he squeezes water down from the top of Marcus' neck, running down between his shoulder blades and down the middle of his back. Something about the chilly water down his spine is a strangely enjoyable sensation, not quite cold enough to be painful, and at this he does gasp, to feel the unexpected odd pleasure of it. He hopes Esca has not heard him.

Indeed, Esca proceeds as though he has not heard the sound, but in some ways, that makes it worse than if he had said anything. He is careful and methodical, as a slave at a bath-house might be—and Marcus hates himself for making the comparison at all, for proud Esca is no man's slave, but then he reminds himself that Esca did offer this of his own free will, and the sick feeling subsides. 

Esca does not linger as a lover might—or rather, as Marcus imagines a lover might, for the sort of people he has fucked were never inclined to touch him much beyond what was strictly necessary. Esca is efficient and perfectly proper, neither caressing him nor drawing out the touches, but Marcus' body seems determined to behave as if Esca has ulterior motives. 

He is exquisitely conscious of Esca's hands on him, as if they burn everywhere they touch him, and as Esca works slowly down to the small of his back Marcus cannot stop himself from imagining Esca's hands moving lower still, everywhere, anywhere Esca wants. Marcus imagines himself unable to stop him, always and forever at Esca's mercy, so that Esca could do anything he wanted, everything Marcus knows he should not let himself want, shameful things. But Esca would do them. He imagines being touched only at Esca's discretion. He imagines Esca withholding his hands, his touch, making him beg for more, making him admit how much he wants this. The thoughts come, of course, with a rushing, wild, shameful desire, and he should never think this, he should not want to submit. And Esca surely means to engender none of this; it is only a bath, and Esca does not want him. He knows he should tell Esca to cease touching him, but when he opens his mouth no words emerge. He wants Esca never to stop.

He is relieved that Esca cannot see his face, or really, the front of him at all, and then it occurs to him that he has not actually taken a breath in several long moments. When he does breathe out, he shakes and trembles, and one of Esca's hands moves inquisitively to his side.

"All right, centurion?" Esca is perfectly formal in tone. Certainly nothing like what is in Marcus' thoughts.

"Fine," Marcus lies quickly. "It is only that the water is cold." That is believable.

There comes another warm laughing breath against his skin, and this time Marcus manages to shiver less. "It is, isn't it?"

Marcus can only nod in reply.

Then Esca picks up one of Marcus' arms and presses the rag into his hand. Surprised, Marcus barely manages to wrap his fingers around it before Esca lets go.

"Are you all done?" Marcus asks, and the gods must at least favor him a little today, since he succeeds in keeping the disappointment out of his voice. He thinks he does, at least.

There is a long pause before Esca replies. "I wondered if you might do me the same favor." His words are careful, precise, expecting nothing. "I cannot reach my entire back either, you see. And I think—" here his words come with obvious reluctance— "there are still parts of my back where another should cleanse it more carefully than I can."

Esca's back. All the ardor drains out of Marcus at the thought. He can't look. He doesn't want to look. He hasn't seen it since it happened. No. Since he did it. It was his fault. And he owes Esca this much. He has to at least face what he has done.

Marcus wills his voice to be strong. "Certainly. Of course I will oblige you."

By the time he has convinced himself to turn, Esca himself has already turned, presenting Marcus with his back. Marcus is glad he does not have to see Esca's face, and furthermore that Esca does not have to see his face as he catches sight of Esca's wounds for the first time since the Nones. The first time since he inflicted them.

Esca's shoulders and back are striped with long multi-colored bruises, the black-purple of the deepest shading to a sickening greenish gold on the lighter ones. It is lighter than he had feared it might be; the intervening days must have done their work on the worst of it. Mud is of course obscuring the full scale of the injuries, and Marcus hopes fervently that it isn't secretly much worse. He can barely handle this. The broken skin is scabbed over, at least, beginning to heal, but there is far too much of it; Esca will have more scars even when this is over. Marcus is frozen in a horrible guilty revulsion. It is awful. And he has done this.

He tries to step forward, but he cannot move. He tries to breathe, but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a small ragged sound.

"It's all right." Esca's voice is even, level, and somehow gentle and coaxing for all that, as if anyone with these wounds should ever say such an unbelievable thing to the man who caused them. "Go on. Touch me. It doesn't hurt."

That can't be true—it has to hurt, the way it looks—and Marcus is ready to refuse, but something about the way Esca says it compels him, and he finds himself moving forward.

When he puts his hand on Esca's back, Esca hisses through his teeth in pain, and Marcus knows he was lying. He doesn't say anything about it. Instead he dips the cloth into the water and sets to work wiping the dirt and blood off him as gently as he can, trying to avoid disturbing the healing wounds.

It is slow work, and Esca, clearly trying to give the impression that this does not pain him—Marcus thinks perhaps this is for his sake—begins to talk.

"Have I missed something in the camp?"

Marcus frowns, but is grateful for the distraction. "What do you mean?"

"It seems... different." Esca begins to shrug, then checks the motion and winces; Marcus nearly winces in sympathy. "Laetinianus is being nicer to me. It is very strange."

Oh. That. Marcus feels his face flush. "He— I— I expressed to him that he might like to."

Esca manages to laugh without moving. "And truly he just did as you asked? That is excellent."

"I hit him in the face." Marcus drops his hands away and the words come out harsher than he had meant to. "He insulted you, and I was not— I was feeling—"

They cannot talk about this. He cannot. There are no words. So he says nothing, and Esca says nothing in return, and when his hands stop shaking he puts the cloth against Esca's back again, tracing out the worst mark with his fingers. That, there, that was probably the first strike he made.

"I dreamed about you," Esca says, after a long moment has passed in silence, and even then his words are almost too quiet to hear, his voice strangely hoarse. "The day after."

Marcus' fingers slip and he prods Esca in a way that must be far too rough, but Esca does not move away. "Did you?"

"I dreamed you came to visit me," Esca says, softly, and Marcus can see his fine pale skin beginning to color, even on the back of the neck. It is a good thing that Esca does not blush often; on him it is obvious. "You didn't, and it is ridiculous, I know, I shouldn't have mentioned—"

Before he can really think about what he is doing, he has his free hand against Esca's arm, sliding in a long, soothing stroke, and Esca seems to relax at the feel of it.

He has to say it now. "It wasn't a dream."

Esca stiffens at that, twisting to face him, and Marcus realizes he is still holding onto Esca's arm. Something that might be a kind of happiness flares in Esca's eyes and he gives Marcus a crooked smile.

"I am gladdened to know that."

And Esca slips out of his grasp, displaying his usual agility, and is halfway to the bank before Marcus calls out.

"Esca?"

Esca turns. He is still so beautiful. He is everything Marcus wants, should not want, and can never have. 

"Yes?"

Marcus swallows hard. "I'm sorry."

The smile disappears; Esca's face is blank of everything except a strange, mournful sadness.

"I'm sorrier."

And with that Esca is up out of the water. Marcus turns away, and he isn't sure whether he wants to smile or cry. It will never been quite the same between them—how could it?—but Esca likes him, still, somehow, and it comforts him to know that.

* * *

The next several days pass much as the previous: they hide, and they wait, and they kill. There is—or should be—no time for reflecting, or thinking, and yet Marcus treasures the brief respite he had, that moment of peace with Esca, the way Esca had seemed happy that he had visited, even through the awkwardness and guilt and shame. Then he lets another arrow fly, and another Votadini falls, and again, and again.

In the brief moments where the pace of life slows enough, they eat hurried meals in the dark, and Esca gives him oddly nervous looks as they choke down tasteless bucellatum from their supplies. The other men of the squad—the two squads, rather, for most of Camulorix' squad is here too—lean against each other in exhausted camaraderie. Even Laetinanus is chatting with Igennus. Only Esca holds himself apart. And Marcus, of course. He should not become close to his men.

"Lonely, centurion?"

Carantos is sprawled across a large amount of the clearing, and he—Marcus blinks—actually has his head in Paetinus' lap, using the man as a pillow. Paetinus is propped up against a tree, looking half-asleep, and does not seem to mind.

He is lonely. But he cannot very well tell Carantos that. Perhaps he can pretend that he has not heard. "Pardon?"

"Everyone else has someone." Carantos' voice is thick with sleep, and that must be why he dares to say it; he must not be thinking. He waves a lazy hand, indicating Marcus himself and then Esca, at the other end of the clearing. "And around here, you take your happiness as you get it. You don't know when you'll die, after all. You can't like being alone, can you? You two'd be happier if—"

Marcus cuts him off, hastily. "Thank you, soldier, but I am quite well." He cannot abide this. Will Esca's lover, now, taunt him with this as well? Esca does not want him. Esca might like him, as a friend, but no one who wanted him could ever say what Esca has said. And Esca is his subordinate. It would be wrong, to say nothing of the wrongness of what Marcus desires from him. He repeats this. This is truth.

Perhaps he just needs a whore or a slave. It has been quite a while since he had anything besides his left hand, after all. And certainly he finds Esca attractive, but this is only lust, of course. It has to be. He knows how to deal with that. He will slake the feeling as best he can with someone else, someone available, someone safe, and it will go away.

Across the clearing, Esca raises his head and looks at him, though in the dark his expression is unreadable.

Marcus wonders if Esca is lonely.

In the morning, reports come from the outlying scouts: there is no further sign of the Votadini. This, Marcus thinks, should conclude their mission. They were assigned to stop the Votadini, and there are none posing any threat. He therefore orders withdrawal to the garrison, sends the scouts back to the rest of the century, and he and the men here begin marching. It is all very routine. Boring. Predictable.

That, of course, is when the ambush happens.

The Votadini are good; he will give them that much. He has a breath's warning as a branch crackles, and as he drops his hand to his dagger—Esca's dagger—the first man leaps out of the woods screaming.

They are on a narrow trail, winding precariously across the hillside, and Marcus struggles to stay on his feet, because if they are forced off, down to the slope, they are dead for certain. The squads are broken up now, spread across the trail for a great span of distance, too far for most of them to help each other, and they are outnumbered.

This was well-planned, he thinks, and that is all he can think as the next Votadini man comes up, slashing high. Marcus ducks, under and up, wishing he had a sword, and stabs him between the ribs. One down.

The closest to him, Sintorix staggers and takes a hit in the arm, and Marcus manages to fend off the next of his own attackers to stab Sintorix' man. Sintorix grins, and Marcus returns it. They can fight. They will not die. He doesn't know where Esca is, and no, he cannot worry about Esca now, he tells himself, and gets a graze on his forearm for his inattention.

He fights, and he fights, and there is nothing in the world but him and the enemy, a dance of blades, forward, pressing, until he finds a weakness. And then, finally, they are all down.

Some of the men are wounded, too, other than Sintorix. They seem to have none dead, and Marcus thanks the gods for this victory, but even at this distance Marcus can see them holding themselves gingerly. Even Laetinianus, thirty feet or so down from Marcus, is leaning on his staff more heavily than normal.

Marcus finally catches sight of Esca, on the other side of Laetinianus. He stands tall, and Marcus' heart warms to see it. No injuries for him, then.

Laetinianus calls out to the rest of the squad ahead of him, ordering Camulorix' squad, as he likes. "All right, soldiers, let us—"

And that is when the last hidden man attacks, leaping down from the hillside, aiming not for Marcus, but for Laetinianus. It is the staff. It must be. The man must have thought he was the leader, standing there giving orders, looking the most Roman of any of them. And Laetinianus is staring down the slope, looking the other way. He does not see the warrior coming up on him. The warrior is a huge man, long-haired, wielding a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other.

"Laetinianus!" Marcus yells out. Marcus is the closest, but even he is too far away to stop the Votadini man. "Behind you!" The optio must save himself. It is his only chance.

Laetinianus is a clumsy fighter, but Marcus did not think he would be this stupid, and it will kill him. He hears the words, and Marcus watches, agonized, as Laetinianus turns— toward Marcus, who called him. Not his attacker. A mistake. He will die because of it.

Esca raises his head and sees him.

The warrior raises his sword—

And then Esca is running, faster than anyone Marcus has ever seen, leaping, and it is as if he has taken flight—

Esca hits the man high and hard, slamming into him with the full force of his body, just as the man brings the sword down.

Marcus' perception shatters, and it is as if he can observe the scene only in still images, one at a time, and he can do nothing about them. The world has frozen to this:

Metal, glinting bright in Esca's hand. The arc of Laetinianus' body, spasming with the sword-strike. Esca's other hand in the man's hair, dragging his head back. The twisted line of the warrior's exposed throat. The man's other hand, upraised, bringing a dagger toward Esca.

The three of them hang there together, poised on the edge of the hillside. Then a dagger flashes in the sun, moving down—the warrior's or Esca's, Marcus cannot see and does not know which—and it is all blood, spurting up in the air, blood everywhere—

And they tumble together, all three, down the steepest part of the slope.

Marcus doesn't think. He isn't thinking. He is only running, running, too late now, and when he reaches the edge he looks down. Three bodies lie in a crumpled, bloody heap, fifty feet down.

None of them are moving.

No.

"Esca!" 

The name is torn from his mouth. Let anyone think what he likes. It does not matter what they think of him. Esca is dead now. He could not survive that. He was unprotected, and surely the Votadini man struck first—

"Esca!" he cries out again, over and over, as he moves down the slope as fast as he can, eyes fixed on the bodies, while inside him there is only a hollow, miserable pit of fear and sorrow.

He ought to care about Laetinianus. He would not have wished the man dead, but that is nothing compared to what he does feel. To the way he feels about Esca. He has seen men die in battle, certainly, and he grieved, but he has never felt this for any of them.

Marcus' foot slips on a loose rock, and he falls and slides a few feet more. He doesn't bother getting up. The dead will be just as dead.

He shuts his eyes. He doesn't want to look at their bodies.

Oh, Esca. He should have— he could have said something. They never talked about it. Not in any way that counted. Maybe Carantos had been right. It is too late now. Esca will never look at him again. He will never smile. He will never laugh and smirk and say one of those things he is always saying: prideful boasts, defiance, insults that he does not mean, that make Marcus brim with a warm kind of fondness, a feeling he has no name for and doubts he will ever feel again—

"Aquila?"

From somewhere far away, a voice is calling his name. Marcus curls up, miserably, covering his face with his hands, and ignores it. Whatever they want to say can wait.

"Aquila!" The voice calls out again, sharper now, tinged with concern.

He shuts his eyes harder, until his face hurts and color comes up behind his eyelids.

"Marcus?"

The sound of his own praenomen snaps him out of it, bringing his immediate attention to bear. Who would call him that? He can think of no one here who would. Only his family.

He opens his eyes to see... Esca.

Esca is kneeling next to him, his face graven with worry, eyes wide, his clothing soaked with blood. Marcus holds out a shaking, disbelieving hand, barely brushing Esca's leg. Esca is real. Alive.

Esca smiles at him, or tries to, though it is an odd, tentative look.

Marcus sits up and reaches for him, desperately, just as Esca pulls him into his arms.

He puts his head on Esca's shoulder, tucks his face against Esca's neck, heedless of the sticky drying blood. "I thought you were dead," he says, again and again, and he knows he is shaking as Esca's hands, warm against his back, hold him close. The men are probably watching. He does not care.

"Did you truly think someone like that could kill me, Marcus?" Esca whispers into his hair, and something within Marcus thrills to hear Esca saying his name. "I slit his throat. He was dead before he hit the ground."

"I—" Marcus chokes out the words— "I am glad. Everything is fine, then?"

Esca's hands push him back then, away from him, and when Marcus looks up Esca's face is grim.

"Not exactly."

Marcus asks, even though he knows what Esca will say. He has to ask. "Laetinianus?"

Esca gives a tight, jerky movement of his head. It could be a nod for yes or no—Marcus cannot quite tell which—but it is clear what he must mean. The first blow was already fatal. Even he could see that.

"I could not save him. Laetinianus is dead."

* * *

They hold the funeral that night, outside the garrison's walls. Sometimes bodies lie unburnt for a time, for a wake, but there is no reason for Laetinianus' to: all in Britannia who knew him are here, and he had been putting aside some of his pay to have a place for his ashes with his family in Italia. Most soldiers do something of that sort. The procession is quiet, unlike civilian funerals; there are no wailing mourners here, only hard-faced soldiers, carrying the robed body on a makeshift couch between them, Gryllus and Igennus at the front. Those men who have armor are wearing it, and now they stand in grim silence before Marcus and the priest, waiting.

Marcus himself puts a coin for the ferryman in Laetinianus' mouth, his fingers shaking, and touches flame to the pyre, turning his face away as is the custom. He has never done this before. If the man had died among family, his closest relative would do this, but there are none here. And Marcus was his commander. The man was his soldier. His responsibility.

The wood catches alight quickly, and as the crackling fire rises up he can see the grave faces of his century, illuminated in flickering light and shadow.

He clears his throat. "Does anyone wish to speak?" 

For a eulogy ought to be said, of course—it is what is done. Ordinarily one gives an oration first, before lighting the pyre, but in these times, in the military, these things are always done as quickly as they can be. And though Marcus hardly knew the man, he supposes he can find something to say, a few good words. There has to be something good to say about him.

The men of the century glance at each other, and from their faces Marcus can see that they are having trouble thinking of the man's positive attributes. That is no way to treat the dead. He supposes the task falls to him.

"Well," he says, stamping down on the impulse to shift nervously while he thinks of words, any words at all. "If none of you have anything—"

There is the slight jingling of mail as a figure steps forward. "I would speak, centurion, if it pleases you."

He doesn't have to see the man's face to know it is Esca.

What can Esca have to say about him that is at all good? Still, no one else has volunteered, and from the way they are looking at Esca, they are not likely to. He hopes Esca does not say anything too awful.

Marcus hopes the surprise doesn't show, and he firms his features as he motions Esca forward. "Speak, soldier."

Esca steps out further, so all can see him, head held high. He is one of the armored men, of course, and the rings of his mail shine brilliantly in the firelight.

"Laetinianus," Esca begins, "was a good Roman." The words hit Marcus hard, a blow that was not aimed at him, for he knows exactly what Esca means by that. "He was proud to serve Rome, and he was the best man he could be."

Marcus can only watch as Esca keeps talking.

"I cannot say that he liked us. Any of us. I know he hated me, and I know why, and I know when it began." It is as though Esca's face is carved from stone, and Marcus winces, imagining the insults about to come. How ill will Esca speak of the dead? "But he was brave to serve with us despite his dislike, and I will tell you all the truth of how he acted with honor that day, since only a very few of you were there. And it is the very best I can speak of him."

In the crowd, some of the men—Carantos, Inam, Crimos, and some others further back whom he cannot see in the dimness—jerk, startled, and look at each other, and Marcus regards them with interest. What is this, then?

"This was about three years ago now." Marcus stiffens now, too, remembering Laetinianus' words about a mission then, the one he'd dared him to ask Esca about. The one he'd wished Esca had died on. "It was when old Publius Triferus was still our centurion, before Viridio. Immediately before Viridio." The corners of Esca's mouth twitch, but the smile is gruesome, and Marcus can tell immediately what Esca is implying about the sequence of events. He is not stupid.

Esca's eyes are haunted as he speaks. "Triferus and Laetinianus were with us when we were captured by the Votadini, a band from so far north we could hardly understand their words. And they knew, thanks to some rumor, that there were Roman spies among us." His mouth quirks again. "It never occurred to them that we were all Roman spies."

Marcus wants to turn his head away, to stop listening, to not know this. But he cannot.

"Imagine this, then." Esca's voice is barely audible over the crackling of the fire. "It is raining, and you are on your knees in the mud, and a man whom you can barely talk to holds his sword at your throat. And you are spinning out the best lie you can, trying to tell them that you are lost, you are traders, you are hunters, you are anything but what you are. And your centurion and optio are there, and they have not the faintest idea what you are saying. You could be betraying them now by your words."

He should step in. He should stop Esca. He cannot do this, either.

"Then one of the Votadini felt the scar from Triferus' helmet, and knew him for a Roman. And he struck him down." Esca looks out over the crowd. "And then Laetinianus attacked them, and bought time for the rest of us. He took down four men, was wounded from then on, though not enough to earn himself a discharge—why do you think he liked the staff so?—and we were able to escape. And I am certain he thought I gave Triferus up, and though he may have hated me for the rest of his life, he didn't let me die then. Not me, not the rest of us, although he saw us as the very barbarians he despised. He hated us, but he commanded us nonetheless. And he fought bravely for Rome. So that is what I will say about him."

Esca drops his head and steps back into the shadows, with nothing else to say.

No one else in the century has anything to say after that, and they stand in silence for a long while and watch the flames rise and consume the man who had been Marcus' optio. All that remains are ashes, then gathered into an urn.

He hardly feels the water against his skin when the priest waves the laurel-branch over him in purification, and he does not hear the pronouncement of " _ilicet_." He only knows it must have been said, because the men of the century leave, murmuring their farewells, until it is only Marcus, with Esca at his side.

"He told me not to trust you," Marcus says, quietly. "He told me he wished you dead."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Esca tilt his head to the side and give a shrug, hardly visible with his armor on. "I am not surprised. He made certain Viridio believed that I killed Triferus. But I did not know he told you that."

"I interrupted him before he could mention the details. That was when I punched him in the face."

"Ah." He thinks he can see Esca smile. "Do you trust me, then?"

It takes Marcus some time to find the exact words he needs. "When there was a dagger pressed to my throat, and I couldn't understand what you were saying, you saved me."

"I did." Esca's voice is quiet. "I am glad I could save you. I only hope your gods welcome the ones I could not."

With that, he drops back into the night and is gone.

Marcus stares at the remains of the pyre for a long time, standing alone. He wishes, somehow, that he had known this while Laetinianus was alive. Perhaps then Marcus would have understood him. Perhaps they would not have been at odds. But it did not happen, and this is what is left now.

" _Vale, Laetiniane_."

* * *

The mood of the camp is subdued, the next morning, when Marcus rises at the dawn trumpet-call for morning assembly. The men may have hated Laetinianus, as he hated them, but he is dead now and certainly no one rejoices in that. The long walk to headquarters feels somehow lonelier, more uncertain. He does not know what will become of the century. They will find him another Roman from somewhere, he supposes, to serve as his optio. And while Marcus doesn't think he could dislike another optio more than he did Laetinianus, at least the man was a known quantity.

Eonus eyes Marcus, as he slides into place next to him, with the other centurions. "I heard about your optio, Aquila. I—" Marcus watches as the man cannot quite bring himself to say he is sorry. "Well. It is a shame to lose any officer." Marcus strongly suspects that _officer_ means _Roman_.

Marcus can only nod.

Suilius comes out, and the assembly is started; Marcus draws himself up to attention. The watchwords of the day are given, as are the orders. There are no orders for the scouts today; Marcus hadn't expected any, and watches as the tribune paces and compliments them all on their fight against the Votadini. The other centuries took more casualties, he realizes, but none of them now lack their optio.

When the assembly is broken up, Suilius motions Marcus over.

"Aquila, a moment, if you will."

It is not a request, and so Marcus follows him all the way to his desk, which is piled high with scrolls and cases and writing-tablets. The tribune ignores all of these and gestures for Marcus to take the opposite seat, as he himself sits down, folding his hands and leaning forward. His face softens, and it is the least stern that Marcus has ever seen him.

"My condolences on the loss of your optio, Aquila," the tribune says. "He was a good man."

Though he would never have thought these things before, insubordinate words drift through Marcus' mind. _We were ambushed, and outnumbered in every battle, and you knew it_ , he wants to say. _You expected people to die. You are only sorry that it was him and not any of the Britons_. His own thoughts horrify him. He would never have spoken thus to his other commanders, and he is not sure whether it is that this man is different or that he himself is, to be able to think such things.

"Sir, I thank you," Marcus forces out.

Suilius blinks—perhaps he expected more of a reaction than Marcus can feign—but then, settles back a little. "I do not mean to sound callous, but I have called you here to talk about the necessity of replacing him."

In a normal century, in a normal posting, the tribune would not be involved in this decision; a centurion picks his optio. But nothing about this posting is normal, and Marcus understands now, thanks to Eonus, the unofficial politics of what is going on. He does not want this. Not like this. But to do anything else is to ruin his chances of promotion; he cannot go against the wishes of his own tribune.

Marcus makes himself nod and hopes his face looks agreeable. "Sir, I had thought perhaps this was the case. Are there ready men in the camp, or in one of the other summer-camps?" He hates to say the words.

"Ah, good," the tribune says. "I see you've been told how we do things around here."

He smiles, and Marcus grits his teeth.

"I have."

Suilius looks down at one of the tablets in front of him. "I took the liberty of investigating the candidates, but I fear there are not so many men who are... suitable." _Roman_. "You understand."

Marcus nods tightly, and after long deliberate breaths, unclenches his fist in his lap. "I understand your meaning, sir."

"Well, then." Suilius smiles. "There is a man by the name of Farus in one of the other camps. He is... young, only six months a soldier, but this cannot be helped." He waves his hand, dismissing any possible objections. "His father was a centurion of mine, years ago. Wonderful man."

Marcus is beginning to feel ill. Not only must he take an optio on the sole merit of the man being Roman, he must take an inexperienced one besides, and all to indulge the tribune's favoritism?

"So he has not commanded men?"

The tribune frowns. "He'd only be an optio. You'd teach him to. Besides, he only has to read orders, does he not?"

That might be true in some centuries, in units not on the frontier, but Marcus stares at the tribune and knows in an instant that this man has never truly been in the field in Britannia, here at the edge of the world.

"And he does not speak British?"

"Of course not!" Suilius actually laughs at that, his eyes crinkling. "Why in the world would you ask that? He's from Rome, not Eburacum!"

He cannot do this. He will not do this. He does not care what his tribune will think of him. He will remain hastatus posterior at this hellish fort for the rest of his career, surrounded by officers who will spend the lives of their men like so many worthless copper unciae, all because the men are Britons. But, damn it all, he will make his own decisions.

And he knows who he wants.

Marcus swallows hard and meets his commander's eyes.

"Then I do not choose him."

Suilius stares at him for several long moments, as though he truly does not understand Marcus' words. Either that, or he does not believe Marcus could have said them. "Excuse me, centurion?"

"I do not choose him," Marcus repeats, lightheaded with the fear and relief of actually having said it. "My optio is my chosen man, yes? Then I would like to choose mine myself."

Suilius' mouth, which had been open in astonishment, closes now as the man tries to pull himself together. "Well, centurion, certainly, if you have found a suitable soldier elsewhere—"

"Not elsewhere." He is interrupting his tribune, but he doesn't care. "In my century."

Silence hangs between them as Suilius finally, finally understands what Marcus intends to do.

"I do not think you fully grasp the situation, Aquila." Suilius' voice is dark with suppressed anger. "You cannot make a painted barbarian your optio. They're illiterate beasts. They will scout for us, they will spy for us, but that is as far as the Britons can be trusted."

"Esca is literate," Marcus protests, feeling ire to match wash over him. How can the man live here, command Britons, and say these things? "I have seen him read. The rest of the century trusts him, which is more than I can say about Laetinianus. And I trust him. With my life."

"Esca?" The tribune's eyes narrow. "Is that not the name of the man you said you beat on the Nones? The insubordinate one?"

Marcus flushes with shame and remembered sadness. "It will not happen again, sir. He has sworn it to me, and I swear it to you."

"Their oaths are worth nothing." Suilius' words are cold and measured, each one a stab of ice. "Do you not see them, all over this wretched isle, giving their word and then breaking it to rise in revolt?"

"This man does not give his word lightly." _He gave me his dagger, whatever it means to him._ Marcus lifts his head, drawing himself up. He will do this. 

A laugh. "So you say now."

"Esca is the best man in my century, and I choose him. I would have no other."

Suilius looks at him for long moments, and Marcus stares back, meeting the glare with his own fire. His heart pounds in his chest, and a part of his mind is still wondering what he is doing and how he can possibly have said any of this.

Then Suilius looks away, and Marcus knows he has won.

"Fine," the tribune says, scowling. "Have your barbarian optio, for all the joy he may bring you." He waves Marcus up, away from his desk.

"Thank you, sir," Marcus starts. "Thank you—"

"But if he acts up, centurion," Suilius says, his gaze and voice both stern, "I will cause you to regret the error of your choice."

Marcus swallows. "Understood, sir."

* * *

After all the arrangements are made, Marcus finds Esca back at camp, sitting at the edge of his squad's tent with his cloak in his lap and a needle and thread in his hands. It must have torn on his fall down the hillside, Marcus realizes. 

Esca does not look up, does not even appear to know Marcus is there, and Marcus is abruptly reminded of his first meeting with Esca, the day he arrived, with Esca so strange and deadly, so cold to him, and so beautiful for all that—

"Esca!" he calls out, and he cannot keep the smile from his face. He does not try.

Esca looks up then, and he is even more beautiful than he was on that day. He returns the smile, it seems, without thinking about it, though his brow furrows in puzzlement. "Yes?"

"My tent, if you please," he says, still grinning, and he watches as Esca puts the cloak aside and rises to his feet to follow. "I'd like to talk to you. A few logistical matters have arisen."

"Are they sending us out again so soon?" Esca asks, still looking confused. "Without an optio? I can make recommendations as to how to redistribute the men, temporarily, if you're looking to balance Camulorix' squad, though it would help if I could see the orders—"

Here he is, already trying to do the job he doesn't know he has. Truly Marcus made the right choice.

He shakes his head. "No orders for today, though—" the idea occurs to him as he says it— "the squads will indeed need to be rearranged slightly, to account for the new optio, and I would appreciate your advice."

Now Esca looks entirely bewildered as he follows him past the other tents. "I don't understand what that should have to do with it, but I will help if you wish. I am only glad they found another optio for us so quickly."

Marcus lets himself smile. "I am as well."

"If they've actually given you one you like, sir," Esca says, eyeing him as though he is mad but for now can be humored, "that will be good for the rest of us. I trust your judgment." Something pleasant and warm flares within Marcus, even as he knows it is more than a little strange to welcome these sorts of remarks from a subordinate. He no longer cares what anyone else may think of him.

"Oh, I am quite pleased with the choice." Marcus feels like he will never stop smiling. Yes. This. This is right.

They reach Marcus' own tent, and Esca clearly has given up on trying to understand Marcus' mood, for he only shrugs and smiles back. "All right, then, sir, tell me of your proposed reassignment of the squads."

Marcus opens the tent flaps and motions Esca inside. He watches as Esca's eyes widen, as he takes in the objects on Marcus' desk. An optio's staff. An optio's ring—Marcus had to guess at the size of Esca's fingers, when he went to the quartermaster, and he hopes it will fit. Esca's own helm, the one he so rarely wears, now sporting an optio's crest, running the opposite way from a centurion's.

"I was thinking," Marcus says, his voice deliberately casual, "that your former squad needed a new decanus." He smiles proudly. "Congratulations, optio."

And he watches, horrified, as Esca's face goes pale in shock, then draws up tight in anger.

Esca's eyes are wide. "No. No, no, no, no," he repeats, shaking his head in violent denial. "Not this. Please, not this. What have you done?" And he fixes Marcus with an accusatory glare.

He never though Esca would refuse. The idea never once occurred to him. He thought it would make Esca happy, just as it would make Marcus himself happy. He ought to have thought harder, it seems.

"Isn't it obvious?" Marcus asks, struggling to maintain composure, though his words are faint in his own ears.

Esca's voice is flat. "You shouldn't have done this."

"It's done."

"Then undo it." The denial has turned to fear, and Esca is begging now. "Please, Aquila. I don't want this."

"But—"

"We only ever have Roman optiones," Esca says, dully. "Perhaps it is different in other centuries, but this is the way it works here. And they are not all as bad as Laetinianus. It is a nice gesture, and truly, I appreciate the sentiment of it more than you can know, but you don't need me to do this. I don't even know what you had to promise the tribune to do this—" He stops dead and stares.

"Esca—" Marcus tries.

"You traded your career for this, didn't you?" Esca starts to laugh. "Your career, held hostage for my good behavior. Suilius won't give you any recommendations, you know. No plum Egyptian postings for you. Not if you're too kind to the barbarians." His voice rises, louder now, and his speech quickens, the words tumbling out one atop the other. "You're a good man, Aquila, a good soldier, and you have to have ambitions beyond this. You can do better. You don't want to be left here for twenty years. This can't be what you want. You'll be stuck with us. It isn't worth it."

_You're worth it._ Marcus snaps his mouth shut before he can say the words.

"You deserve it," Marcus says, "more than anyone else does. The men will follow you. They will obey you. You deserve the double pay more than Laetinanus did."

"I don't care about the money," Esca retorts, "and I don't want to command. Didn't I tell you how I tried to avoid this? I don't want to be promoted, or do anything that might lead to being transferred, and then I can't—"

"—kill Caledonii," Marcus finishes for him.

A bitter laugh. "Figured that out on your own, did you?"

"I'll leave instructions," Marcus says, desperately. "I'll put it in my will. If I'm transferred, or killed, your next centurion will hear all about how you're incompetent or insubordinate or stupid or whatever you want me to tell them, and that I only promoted you because—" _I wanted you in my bed_ , his mind unhelpfully supplies, and it would be funny if only he didn't— "I'll think of something to tell them when I'm dead. They'll demote you."

Esca sighs, and the objections seem to start to slip away, as he gives a tiny nod in acquiescence. "The transfer, I think, is more likely. I've seen you fight. If someone ever manages to take you, I— I do not think I would be able to survive for much past that."

Marcus smiles a little at the compliment, macabre as it is. "Thank you."

Esca's mouth twitches in return. "It is only the truth, centurion."

"Please, Esca. Please do this." _For me_ , he wants to say, but he does not quite know if that would move him. "You are the best in the century, as I believe you told me once. And I trust you more than any other. And I would have you as my optio."

He picks up the ring from his desk and holds it out in his palm. It is an unexpectedly heavy weight for such a small thing, he thinks, or perhaps it only seems such.

Esca looks at him, expression unreadable, for a long time. He reaches out, and his fingers against Marcus' hand are warm and strong as he takes the ring.

"All right, Aquila." Esca smiles, and divines Marcus' last argument, the one he did not quite say. "For you, I will be your optio."


	4. Chapter 4

Everything is better, then.

Not just for Marcus—though he would be lying if he said he did not enjoy having Esca as his optio—but the mood of the entire century is improved. There are smiles on the faces of his men, and a few of them drift into his tent, as the day goes on, and they thank him quietly. And they already seem proud, all of them, and they do not mind when Esca comes to a few, here and there, and encourages them to fix their gear rather than dice or drink.

In the evening, Esca wanders by his tent, and even in the dimness Marcus can see the flush in his cheeks, can smell the wine on him.

"Celebrating?"

Esca grins, his smile wide and open, and Marcus has the vague sense that he ought to feel guilty about how much he is already enjoying the lack of Esca's customary guardedness, as if he is in some way taking advantage of him by just seeing him in this state. "Half the century wanted to buy me a drink, for some reason."

"I'd have bought you one too," Marcus replies, smiling back, "if I thought you'd let me."

Esca steps a little closer, and something about his smile changes then, making Marcus shudder hard with the sudden awareness of how near Esca is, as desire curls through him.

"Oh, I'd let you." Esca licks his lips and smiles. "You have only to ask."

He can't mean anything by it. He can't mean what Marcus wants. He doesn't mean it. He is drunk, anyway, and it is wrong, and everything Marcus wants from him is wrong—

Marcus swallows and clears his throat. "Was there a reason you wanted to see me?" He must maintain his composure. He must.

There is a long pause, as Esca seems to recall his purpose. "Yes," he says, slowly, and Marcus can only be imagining that he hears disappointment in Esca's voice. "Paetinus."

"What about Paetinus?"

Free with his movements, Esca waves a hand. "Make him decanus."

That was not the name he'd expected to hear.

"Are you sure?"

Esca frowns. "Why wouldn't I be? He's a good man and he's responsible. What else do you need?"

"I thought—" Marcus tries to come up with a discreet way to say it— "that you might be inclined to pick Carantos for decanus."

And Esca laughs. "Carantos? Of course not. He's the least suited in the squad. Excellent soldier, mind you, but no initiative. Always needs someone to tell him what to do, and even he knows it. It wouldn't work at all. Why do you think I'd recommend him?"

"I— because—" He can't bring himself to say it.

Esca's complete lack of propriety is either a blessing or a curse. Marcus is leaning toward the latter. "Oh!" he says, brightly, in the tone of one who is very pleased to have realized something. "You think it would be because of the _fucking_! Well, he was very good at that—"

Marcus resists the impulse to cover his face with his hands.

"—but that isn't why we promote people," Esca finishes, still smiling.

_Maybe it is_ , Marcus thinks, bleakly. It is not quite true; he knows Esca is competent, intelligent, authoritative, and a good soldier, but he cannot very well tell himself he finds the man unattractive.

"Very true," Marcus lies.

"At any rate," Esca continues, briskly, as if the previous exchange was of no consequence, "if you like Carantos so, promoting Paetinus will mean you see more of him as well, of course."

Marcus doesn't follow. "How so?"

Esca gives him a strange look. "Why, they are together, of course." The meaning is very clear from the tone in his voice, but for some reason—possibly the drink—he goes on with the explanation. "Tent-mates, you might say, but the other kind as well." And he laughs, pleased with his own cleverness. "Did you never notice?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"You should pay more attention, Aquila," Esca says, and the look in his eyes now is odd and almost sad, and Marcus has no idea why. "There are so many things you might see if you looked."

* * *

In the morning, Esca looks at him coolly, more reserved, sober now, and Marcus finds himself missing the openness of the previous night. He cannot bring himself to ask if Esca might have meant by his words what he himself had imagined. Of course he cannot.

A cold wind whips through his cloak as the tribune paces the lines. It is the end of June, only a few days before the Kalends of July, and it would never be this cold in Italia. Or Judaea. But he requested Britannia, Marcus tells himself, firmly. He can endure this.

Suilius issues them orders that Marcus now thinks of as standard—scouting, basic patrolling, looking for Votadini, and certainly no ambushes. For this, Marcus is grateful. But he does eye Marcus fiercely as he gives the orders, and Marcus knows this is a test for him. For Esca. For his judgment. Marcus draws himself up, as tall as he can. He has chosen rightly.

Eonus frowns at him as the assembly breaks up. "Rumor has it that you made one of your barbarians your optio." He seems to share Suilius' opinion of the matter, and his face is pinched in disapproval.

"Indeed." There is no point in denying it. "In fact," Marcus adds, "I suppose I should thank you, for recommending Esca to me."

"Esca?"

Does he not remember? "The man you introduced me to, the day I arrived. You said he knew the men of the century."

Eonus frowns again, this time in thought, as a man would who has truly forgotten, then he shrugs. "If you say so, Aquila."

Marcus smiles to himself all the way down the road.

"Optio," he says, back at the century, secretly exulting in the word as he presses the tablet into Esca's hands. "Read the day's orders to the men."

When Esca lifts his head and smiles, he knows it is all worth it.

Marcus tells a surprised and thankful Paetinus of his promotion as the century packs their gear; Esca's orders, Marcus notes, are much more like the detailed ones he had been giving his squad than the lackluster ones Laetinianus had been giving, and Marcus appreciates that. Also, he realizes as they march out, he and Esca seem to be with Paetinus' squad; well, he can hardly fault Esca for wanting to see some familiar faces.

The squad splits into two again, as they walk out, through the forests and up the hills, and Marcus clutches his drab cloak around him tighter as the wind increases. He is amused to note that the half-squad is him, Esca, Vatto, and Paetinus and Carantos, side by side at the head of the group. He doesn't know how he could have missed it before, but he supposes that Esca is right. It is easy to see, now that he knows it is there, the way they are tuned to each other, always looking at each other first before others. And if Esca was right about this, he wonders, what else could Esca have meant, when he said that he was missing something?

He doesn't know if he would have seen it, then, if he hadn't been alert for something, anything, but he does notice when Vatto starts humming. There is no one else around to hear them, and there shouldn't be for a while, according to the orders, so Marcus cannot quite fault him for being in high spirits, even though he should.

The tune is eerie, haunting, and it makes the hair on the back of Marcus' neck stand on end. It is then that Carantos starts to sing with it, softly, in British. Marcus may have been learning the language, but sung words are harder than spoken ones, and he can hardly make out any of it. Something about a battle, perhaps, and a warrior named Dog...? No, that can't be right—

Esca freezes, next to him, with the look of a frantic, trapped animal in his eyes, and then he calms himself. What is going on here?

"No!" Esca snaps out, and then he catches himself, like the word is harsher than he intended. "Please."

Carantos looks back and pales, and the song dies on his lips. And Marcus knows he cannot ask.

"Perhaps the centurion has a song he could share?" Vatto offers, hesitantly, after long moments of silence.

Anything to make this agonizing stillness go away. Anything to make Esca stop looking like that. Marcus forces a smile and launches into the first verse of the one about kissing a girl at Clusium.

In the middle of the third verse, Esca laughs, and Marcus is gladdened to hear it. "Pardon?" he asks, having stopped.

"Oh, no, keep singing," Esca says, and smirks a little. "I was only thinking, well, if this is what the legions have to offer, it is awfully... genteel."

Damn him, how does Esca make him blush so much? "It has other versions," Marcus mumbles, dropping his head and focusing only on stepping over the gnarled tree roots before him as he walks. "Some of them have more, ahem, detail."

In front of him, Paetinus snickers and starts singing it, with the verb changed already—that bit is easy enough for anyone to figure out—and so Marcus smiles and, for the moment, puts Esca's strange reaction out of his mind.

When night falls, Paetinus—for it is his squad now, after all—halts, and the five of them stop in a circle near a small, quiet stream. Marcus stands with his back to the bank and watches in approval as Paetinus gives orders.

"First watch for me, Carantos, and Vatto," he says, but he looks over at Marcus—or maybe Esca as well—for approval. "I think perhaps our commanders should have more sleep than the rest of us."

Marcus raises his hands, abdicating responsibility. It is good to delegate, at times. "It is your squad, _decane_ ," he replies. "But I am certainly willing to take my share of the watch, so wake me on your way back."

Paetinus nods, and the three of them start to turn, to head into the forest. Marcus steps back as well—

—and he falls into the water.

He isn't very aware of the exact sequence of events, only a terrified cry from somewhere nearby, and then there is only the blinding, bone-chilling cold of the water as he lands hard in the shallows, only his gear on his back separating him from the rocks of the riverbed, and then his head goes under—

Hands pull him up, toward the shore, and as he scrambles to the bank there is only the cold, and he is shaking, shaking so much that each successive teeth-jarring tremor only hurts more. The wind hits him, and then it is ten thousand times worse.

"It's all right," someone is saying to him, low and soothing. Esca's voice. Esca's hands are warm on his arm, the only warmth he has. "I've got you, I've got you. Go on," Esca calls out, louder, probably to the others. "You're on watch anyway; I can handle him. I just might need to borrow your cloaks. And Carantos, spare clothes? Mine won't fit him, but yours might—"

The wind blows again, and if Esca says anything else Marcus can't hear it over the chattering of his teeth.

Then Esca drops his hand, and Marcus is bereft, alone in the cold night.

"Esca?" he manages, and then hands are at his waist, undoing his belt.

"Off," Esca's voice says, impatiently, and Marcus shudders with something fearful that is not entirely the cold, and he tries to pull away. "Come on, we have to get you into something dry. I am not letting you die of this—"

The air is even worse on his bare skin when he finally gets the sodden tunic over his head and off, and Esca helps him into the too-large tunic as quickly as he can, and then the braccae, which barely stay up, but it is better than nothing.

But he is still shivering, even though he is drier now, and in the dimness he can just barely see Esca, who is picking apart the gear of the others, quickly and methodically, taking their cloaks. He spreads one on the ground and then sits on it, pulling two more cloaks around him. Marcus' mind, slow from the chill, can't quite figure out what he's doing.

Then Esca pats the cloak under him, the one on the ground, and Marcus understands. He wishes he didn't.

"No, Esca, I—"

There is just enough light for him to see the expression on Esca's face, concern and annoyance mingled together. "Come _here_ , Marcus."

Marcus goes.

He lies down atop the cloak on the ground, and Esca promptly throws two more over him and then curls up behind him, fitting his body neatly against Marcus' back, head against Marcus' shoulder and an arm around him, pulling him closer. Marcus can feel the heat of him even through the wool, and still he is trembling, his breath coming out of him in shaky gasps. All he cares about is being warm, and right now it feels like he will never be warm again.

"You'll be fine," Esca whispers, and his hold tightens almost possessively; Marcus is grateful for the reassurance. "You're not going to die on me. You don't want me to have to give your eulogy."

Marcus has enough breath to laugh at that, almost. "It would be a fine one. Would you tell them I was a good Roman?"

"If you like." Esca seems to consider the rest of his answer for a long while. "I think you're a good man, certainly, and a good soldier, but I do not know Rome well enough to say."

He means no. He means all the ways Marcus has acted, of course: his kindness to the men, promoting Esca, all of it would be looked down upon. Esca is right, of course. Marcus tries to move away, shamed, though he knows Esca did not mean it thus. "I used to be— I tried—"

"Don't be sorry." Esca holds him tight, now, and Marcus relaxes into it. "You are who you are, and there is more good in you than in a hundred other men."

He isn't a good Roman. Not anymore. He sees all the flaws and greed and biases of the men at the camp, men he could have called friends. He wants things that no good Roman should want, certainly—not anything a man should want, not anything an officer should want from his subordinates. And Esca knows this about him.

"It will be an excellent eulogy, then," he makes himself say, forcing a lightness into his tone, and he feels Esca chuckle against his shoulder.

"I won't even have to lie."

And Marcus does laugh at that. If he is not a good Roman, maybe he can still be someone else honorable. And Esca likes him. Esca does not desire him, clearly, else he would have done something, said something, once he had learned of Marcus' shameful secrets, would he not? Marcus is learning to accept that lack of desire, but Esca does like him, it seems, and Marcus feels long-held tension ease out of him. Perhaps it is better this way, too. If Esca does not desire him, Marcus will never have to worry about his wonderful, terrifying imaginings ever coming true. Those, he certainly cannot act upon.

Esca is quiet for a long while, as they lie there together in the dark. A month ago Marcus would have been having heated fantasies about this very thing; now, he is too weary almost to notice, but he is grateful for Esca's closeness. Because he likes Esca. He doesn't know what else to call it, but he is pleased to be in Esca's presence, always, more than with other friends he has had. Esca makes him smile, makes him laugh, makes his heart lift even when he is infuriating. A vague thought at the back of his mind begins to form. He knows what this is called—

"I'm sorry," Esca murmurs, breaking the thought before he can quite complete it.

Marcus frowns. "Sorry for what?"

"I've been using your praenomen." Esca sounds sheepish. "I know it is a name Romans do not use, much, not by itself, and I apologize—"

"Use it," Marcus says, before he can think about it. His urgent, vehement reply surprises even himself. "I have always liked for my close friends to use it, as well as family—" and then he has to stop, remembering Aetius in his legion, the last who called him it, dying at Marcus' side— "and I would be happy to count you a friend."

"Marcus, then," Esca says, and though Marcus is growing warm now something else bright and contented flares up within him. Esca sounds as though he is smiling. "You Romans, you are strange."

"How so?"

"You have so many names," he says with a sort of fond exasperation in his voice, "and yet you only go by one of them. You have hundreds of years of customs, with so many laws, so many rules that you bind yourselves with."

Marcus swallows and feels himself tense again. "Restraint is what makes us civilized." It is the answer he ought to give, but he knows that somewhere, deep inside him, some part of him is fighting to get free. He does not know who he would be if he yielded to it. The thought is frightening. What would he do?

"Ah." Esca's hand strokes a long line of calming warmth down his arm. "My people would tell you that passion is what makes us alive."

"I—" Marcus cannot drag his thoughts from the idea, even if Esca does not mean by it what the more prurient part of his mind would like. What would it be like, to do what he wanted? "I begin to see why you have had discipline problems in the army."

He wants to ask him more about his people—it is the only time Esca has mentioned them, he thinks—but then he remembers the song from earlier, and he knows Esca would not say. Esca has so many secrets.

"Mm." Esca's voice is tired, now, and after a long time his breathing begins to smooth out, and Marcus knows he is asleep. Esca clutches him closer, and Marcus has to smile at that.

He likes this, this nearness, comforting and pleasing him. It cannot be lust—or at least, not only lust—for he is half-drowned and in no mood for that now. But he wishes they could be like this always, for he would be perfectly content. He has never felt like this before. There should be a name for this feeling, this strange happiness.

The realization, blinding in intensity and simplicity both, descends upon him.

It is love. He is in love with Esca.

Marcus shuts his eyes and wonders what he has done to deserve this. Could he not have fallen for someone proper, someone safe? A Roman girl, perhaps, gentle and demure? An obedient perfumed slave-boy? Anyone but a wild painted Briton, who dares him and pushes him and tempts him with things he cannot have?

No, he knows. He only wants Esca. He wants to give himself over, to kneel and put himself in Esca's safe hands, to surrender himself while Esca holds him down and smiles and smiles and together they would be happy, so happy—

He cannot have any of it. Esca does not love him. Restraint is better than passion, surely, because if this is life it is miserable to be denied it.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

* * *

The world is still normal in the morning. Marcus knows that of course his realization shouldn't change anything, but he half-expects to find everything different when he wakes with the dawn—for it seems Paetinus let both of them sleep the whole night—and Esca next to him yawns and gives one sleepy, free smile before drawing up into his guarded self. Nothing should be different, and indeed Marcus is the only one who is.

_I'm in love with you_ , he thinks, and he can't stop staring at Esca, until Esca looks at him oddly and he has to cease. _I've fallen in love with you and you can't ever know_.

There is no sign of the Votadini, not that day, nor the next, nor the next, but the squad—and indeed, the rest of the century, when they pass the others in their scouting—seem unusually happy. Camulorix in particular is looking thrilled not to be saddled with an incompetent Roman, or so Marcus overhears one of the soldiers saying. And they all defer to Esca and seem proud of it. Esca has their loyalty. And he has Marcus' heart.

Marcus wonders just when he turned into a sentimental poet.

On the fourth day, with no one but themselves in evidence, they head back in the morning, and it is nearly dark before the garrison walls are outlined against the sky.

"Probably new orders, sir," Paetinus says, as they pick their way back toward the camp, in answer to nothing Marcus has asked.

"Hmm?"

"They've probably had some more intelligence about the tribes moving around here," Paetinus clarifies. "And it probably wasn't where they sent us."

"Or even not the Votadini." This last is Carantos, who has come up beside them. Marcus tries to ignore the fond look passing between the two, feeling that he is intruding. And if he pretends not to notice, then he will not have to say anything about it, since he has put the one man in a position of authority over the other.

Marcus tries to follow. "You think perhaps it could be some entirely different group?"

"Oh, certainly," Paetinus says. "The Novantae have been quiet for a while. Or perhaps some unallied band of Selgovae."

Well, he will have to see what the tribune has to say. This turns out—after Marcus has bathed and changed into proper Roman clothing for the audience, of course—to be nothing of value.

"You'll have new orders in the morning," Suilius harrumphs, after Marcus has reported the lack of enemy activity. "There will be more for you to know then, centurion."

Marcus shifts and shivers, for even with a cloak over his tunic he is cold. He tries to tell himself he doesn't miss wearing British clothing. What has become of him?

He nods. "Thank you, sir."

Suilius gives him an odd, calculating look. "And your barbarian optio? How does he fare?" He asks it as though he is hoping Marcus will tell him the choice was poorly-made.

Marcus swallows and tries to keep the objections out of his tone. He must certainly respect his commander. "Esca performs his duties well, sir."

"Hmm. Well, we will see." Suilius waves a hand. "Go on, centurion, back to your men. You will need your rest for tomorrow."

Marcus does, and he does rest, though not before telling the men not to unpack except to ready their weapons for cleaning; he has an idea of what might be coming.

And indeed, as the man had promised, he has new orders, already written out in wax for them, with their deployments traced upon papyrus for them to peruse, but he tells them all aloud, anyway.

"This," the tribune calls out, looking even more threatening against the pale dawn, "will be much like your previous skirmishing against the Votadini," and Marcus swallows, already not looking forward to the idea of the deaths. He already lost an optio; he does not care to lose anyone else.

"We have had reports from the wall that a band of Brigantes has crossed and is coming north. Ordinarily the southern tribes do not give us much trouble, but the guards have said the barbarians were discussing the Votadini as they rode through, and so suspicions are raised. And they are coming toward us. We believe they intend to try to take at least Trimontium, in alliance with the tribes here, if they continue on their course. We will be defending here, of course, but—" he eyes Marcus and stops before him— "you, Aquila, and your scouts are to head south and kill as many as you can before they get here. Others are to take up defensive positions."

Well, that is a different tribe, indeed, as Paetinus had thought it might be, and it is odd to hear of them this far north. Marcus had thought the Brigantes had been subdued, by now, but he supposes that this is not the case. Not if they are in league somehow with these Votadini. He only half-listens as the tribune keeps talking about how the Brigantes have been passing, north and south of the wall, by ones and twos for months, but only now does a large group come from Isurium, pretending to be traders as the Votadini had done, with the Votadini's name on their tongues. It is damning.

But it does not matter who it is that they fight, as long as they don't die. He hopes they don't die.

"Good luck," Eonus says, as they head out.

Marcus thanks him. "To you as well."

"Ah, but you will need it, Aquila, with all your dangerous ambushes to come."

He is still thinking about the map, possible placements of the century, the ways the Brigantes might come up against them, and as such he is hardly paying attention when he hands the tablet with the orders to Esca.

He only notices when the tablet hits the ground and breaks at its hinges.

Esca is standing there, shaking as if it is a struggle to stand upright, his body trembling in minute motions, his head inclined toward the ground where the tablet is, but he isn't seeing it; his eyes are wide and unfocused. His face has drained of all color whatsoever, shockingly pale, and Marcus wonders, terrified, if Esca is ill, if it is the falling-sickness, if it is some sort of fit—

Then Esca lifts his head. His skin is an awful blotchy gray now, and his expression is absolutely still, except for the look in his eyes, hurt and broken like a man tortured. "Centurion." His voice is hoarse. "May I talk to you?"

"Certainly," Marcus says, trying to keep all the worry out of his tone.

Esca kneels to pick up the pieces of the tablet. His movements are slow and laborious, nothing like his usual self, but finally he looks up. "In private." It is not framed like a respectable request, but Marcus ignores that; he is too concerned about Esca's sudden upsetting behavior for such an insignificant thing as that to matter.

"Very well." 

He wants to offer Esca a hand, but he does not think Esca would take his help, so he only walks slowly and lets Esca follow him to his tent.

In the dimness, Esca, still too pale, stares at him, and says one word.

"No."

Marcus feels something cold and horrible settle in his chest. "What do you mean, no?" It feels as though someone else is saying the words, and he has to ask, he has to, because maybe it isn't what he thinks—

Esca lifts his head. "I will not follow these orders." His eyes are terrified, but his voice does not waver.

"You—" the words stick in Marcus' throat— "you can't just pick and choose which orders to obey! When you serve Rome, you give your whole heart to Rome."

But Esca hasn't, of course. He has only given Rome but the smallest piece of it. It is only that for Esca the smallest piece is larger than the entire hearts of most men Marcus has served with.

That is all too clear now, as Esca stands before him, defiant.

"I will not follow them," Esca repeats. "You may— you may do what you like with me." He is offering his own death to Marcus; does he not know that? He has to know. "But you should be aware that the men will not follow the orders, either."

Marcus forces himself to breathe as numbness spreads through him. "I advise you to think about what you're saying." Esca has to know this is mutiny. This is not an easy slip, like one man dead of the Caledonii. That, he could excuse, he could explain—after all, they were ordered to kill them anyway, later. But the century cannot refuse to fight. They cannot. They will surely be put to death. "Please, Esca. Think. Do not do this."

"I know what I am saying." Esca's response is barely above a whisper. "We will not fight the Brigantes."

Fear uncurls itself in Marcus' stomach, wraps around his spine. "And if I ordered you to?"

Esca looks at him for a long time. "I would not kill you," he says, finally, and the pain written across his face is horrible to behold. "I could not do that. But I cannot guarantee that everyone else in the century would refrain."

This is not happening. This is not. Revolts happen in battle, with deserters, and not with a man in his tent giving a quiet, proud refusal. But Esca is here, and that is what Esca is telling him.

"I don't understand." Marcus is helpless now, caught in some inexorable tide of events he cannot comprehend. "But why?" The question comes out of him brokenly, more hurt than he wanted to sound. More than he wanted to ever be. He does not want this to happen.

Esca's eyes are sad, and for a long while he says nothing, and Marcus thinks that this is the end of it. It has all come down to this, and Esca will say nothing.

Then Esca speaks, voice anguished, as if the words are being torn forcibly from him. "I am Brigantes."

Marcus has forgotten how to breathe. This is what Esca was not telling him, and Marcus had sworn it did not matter who Esca had been. Now it does, and it will kill them.

"And the rest of the century, the men from the tribes—they are Brigantes too, most of them, or have sworn oaths to me as allies."

"To you?" It is all Marcus can think to ask. "Why did you not say—?"

"It wasn't going to matter." Esca shuts his eyes in misery. "We are only barbarians, after all. Why should a Roman care who my family was? They are dead. Why should a Roman care about my honor, or my other oaths? I am far from home, Marcus. It shouldn't have mattered. I should never have seen the Brigantes again."

"I care," Marcus says; for that, he can respond to. He does not know what to say to the rest of it.

"And what of it?" Esca opens his eyes now, and it is all fire. "You are Roman. You have orders. You will still have me do this."

"Tell me," Marcus pleads, and he wants to reach for Esca, as if touching him would make any of it better. "Tell me why I shouldn't do this. Tell me about your family. Tell me anything. Tell me about your honor."

"My honor?" Esca laughs, a sad, mocking sound. "They say that we Brigantes have no honor. They say that we sold it to Rome, that we traded it for your trinkets and jewels, that we sent it along with the tax collectors. They say that Cartimandua herself threw our honor away with Caratacus when she pushed him, bound, broken, and betrayed, into the waiting arms of the legionaries. And they are wrong."

He can only watch as Esca keeps speaking, pride and a terrible sadness mixed together in his voice.

"The world is ever-changing, and since the day Caesar sailed north from Gaul, since the day Romans set foot in this land, ours was never the same. We saw the Eagles crest the hill, the soldiers thousands strong, and we knew we would die if we fought. We were not stupid. And we knew we would rather be alive to tell of it than to be a dead memory. And so we became your allies. Friends. A client kingdom. You shared our meals and stood at our shoulders in battle. And we were proud to be so clever, to have bonds between us and someone who might ward off our enemies."

Marcus knew, of course, about the old queen, the one who had allied the kingdom with Rome, but he never realized that it might matter now, nearly a hundred years later and many miles away. And still Esca is talking.

"The peace did not last, of course; peace never does. And as we are a vast tribe, and do not all feel the same in all ways, so some of us bear ill-will toward the empire, and at times some do more than others. But some of us are of Cartimandua's blood, and we remember, and we have always loved Rome. And there is honor in that. For me, there is. Since you asked of my honor." Esca gives a rueful smile, and then his gaze sets, hard and determined. "It is a bitter thing now, I suppose, to say my honor lies in serving Rome for my people, but there you have it."

Of Cartimandua's blood? And yet Esca is here, a common soldier. How—? He struggles to find words. "Esca—"

"And you cannot ask this of us." If another man said it it might be a plea, but with Esca it is akin to an order. "You cannot ask this of me. Name anyone else and I will kill them, I will do it happily, but I will not murder my kin for Rome." 

Esca stares at him, shaking, for a long while, and then bows his head, a man waiting for his own execution.

What can he say? What can he do? Esca has made his own loyalties perfectly clear, and now it is Marcus' turn. Marcus is torn now, split between Esca and Rome. He has to make a decision. He knows what his own honor should demand of him. He knows what the oaths say.

And Marcus knows, before he speaks, that he has already made his choice.

"It is not a treaty," he says, slowly, "if only one side remembers it. I will not give you these orders."

And Esca looks up, and starts to smile—

"But I don't know what to do." He tries to keep the fear out of his own voice. "If I walk back to the tribune now, and tell him this, I will be disciplined—" _or killed_ — "and he will send someone else in my stead, and you will still be made to fight these men from Isurium."

Esca stops then, and frowns, with a strange, thoughtful look on his face. "Isurium?"

"Yes, Isurium," Marcus repeats. "Warriors, coming to attack, allied with the Votadini."

Esca shakes his head violently. "I don't know what's going on, but you're being lied to. Isurium is—" he bares his teeth, half a smile— "civilized, as Rome reckons it. They are not allied with the Votadini. And they would not attack anything Roman, I swear it. I will swear on anything you ask." Esca says it with an absolute, unshakable certainty. 

He is trusting Esca. He has to trust Esca. "All right. What should we do?"

"The goal of the orders is to prevent them from attacking Trimontium, yes? Perhaps not your orders exactly, but that is the intent?"

Marcus nods. "Yes, but—"

"Then we will stop them." Esca looks at him as if the answer is obvious.

"And how do you propose that we do that?"

Esca shrugs. "We will intercept them, and we will talk to them."

"And if they do not listen?"

Esca stands proud, and Marcus can see some hint of the man he must have been, before he was only a soldier, as he draws himself up, imperious, brilliant in his intensity, and Marcus loves him for it. "They will listen to me. I know it." 

He still does not quite know who Esca was—who he is—but for now, the present is what matters. They have to stop this.

"How do you think we will get there?" Eighty men, even trained scouts, running through the forests and hills all at once will surely be noticed. "The century cannot cover that much ground, not quickly enough to warn them without arousing suspicion—"

"Then don't bring the century." Esca is pleading now, as he was not before. "Me. You. Steal horses if we can. We will be fast, and stay hidden, and none will notice."

Marcus takes a deep breath. "If I do this for you, you will tell me everything. Everything, Esca." He wants to know who he is risking his life for.

And Esca looks at him and smiles. The look is still reticent, but he is smiling all the same. "On my honor, I swear it."

Marcus smiles back, feeling himself settle heavily into the readiness he feels before a battle. "Then let's run."

* * *

In the end, they don't end up stealing horses, per se—or at least, not as the usual kind of horse thief might. There are a few beasts even here at the temporary camp, some remounts for the messengers, some stock on the way to the cavalry at Trimontium. Marcus stands tall and tries to look as officious as possible, and he manages to imply without actually saying it that Suilius' orders to him included the loan of two horses. He knows this will not give him any lenience on the insubordination charge that is to come, but he cannot quite bring himself to lie. Only afterward, when he and Esca are standing alone with the reins in their hands, their gear packed behind the saddles, does he wonder if perhaps this will cause trouble for the man who believed him.

Esca is eyeing his own mount, a spirited chestnut mare, with a fair amount of trepidation, which the horse herself seems to be reflecting, tossing her head back and stamping.

"Is there a problem?" Marcus asks, vaulting into the saddle of the grey he has chosen even as Esca remains on the ground. Surely Esca can ride. He wouldn't have suggested horses if he couldn't.

Esca shakes his head. "It has only been a while, and even then I was riding British horses. I wish we had those." He gives a shrug and then mounts, easily enough, settling heavily upright into the tight cavalry saddle. 

The Roman horses are fine-boned, delicate, and bred from the best Arabians, no doubt; the Britons, most of them, have little more than shaggy ponies. Maybe Esca objects to the height of them. Marcus frowns as he reins his horse around. "Why?"

"They know the land, and they won't spook as easily," Esca says, sounding defensive. "Not like these flighty things. Also, with us riding in on Roman horses, using Roman tack—" and he suddenly switches to British— "they will take us for Romans or horse thieves, and they may be wary of either."

"I'm both," Marcus replies, in the same language, nudging his gelding forward.

Esca laughs to hear his candor. "So you are. Well, any horses are better than none."

And they ride.

It is a day's ride, maybe two, Esca tells him, calling back over his shoulder, and Marcus does not question how it is that Esca seems to know the exact trails to take, or places trails used to be, gaps between bushes and places where the ground smooths out to admit just enough space for a man, or a horse. He does not question Esca's judgment as to exactly where the warriors will be. Perhaps it is somewhere the Brigantes rode, before, where Esca himself has been with them. 

They do not need to ride hard, the two of them, since they have horses—not at all as fast as they would have needed to run—and since all that is necessary is finding the Brigantes before they reach the trap that has been laid for them.

The land seems different now, seeing it all from horseback; not having to walk it himself gives Marcus the opportunity to look around at the vast expanse of it in a way he could not quite do before, a way that was not visible either as a scout or coming in on the Roman-built roads. It is wild and harsh, nothing like the familiar, soft hills of Etruria, but it is not as alien as once it was to him. He thinks he could grow to like the chill of the air, the trees crowding thick about them, the ragged, jutting slopes and inclines of the ground. It is strange, but somehow the strangeness itself has its own appeal. Too, it is not as if it is totally unknown; Marcus is recognizing, already, that they have walked this way before with the century. Or rather, that they had walked part of the way, that they had stopped here to slather mud on their faces; then Esca turned the two of them south and west into new territory.

Esca is in his element. Marcus finds him fascinating to watch. Oh, he certainly did a fine job commanding his squad, and he taught Marcus well about scouting, but this is something else entirely. He leads with an absolute confidence, as if the trackless route they take is impressed on him with a bone-deep certainty. He does not stop, or slow, or even look confused. When Marcus catches sight of him every so often his face is determined, and he knows he has ceded command here to Esca. Oddly, he does not quite mind, not as he did before. Esca deserves it, here, and he trusts him to lead him rightly.

They ride all day, until Esca slows and then stops in a small clearing, with grass for the horses and a stream nearby. Good enough, Marcus judges, and obviously Esca has thought so as well.

"We'll stop here for the night," Esca says, unnecessarily, as he dismounts, and Marcus swings down to join him. "We should reach them tomorrow morning."

It is entirely dark by the time they've finished seeing to the horses, at which point Esca sits down, wrapping himself in his cloak, and eats his bucellatum like he's actually enjoying it.

Marcus raises his eyebrows as he fetches his own from his bags. "No fire?"

"Mm," Esca replies, mouth full, and then swallows and speaks. "The territory is safe enough, but I don't want them to find us first."

"Good point."

A long silence passes between them, as they eat, and then finally Esca lifts his head. He is barely more than a shadow in the darkness.

"I promised you answers." Esca's face isn't visible, but his tone is friendly enough, though tinged with reluctance.

And something within Marcus regrets this. He shouldn't hold Esca to this; if Esca wants to tell him anything, it should be of his own free will, not a bargain extracted for the safety of his people. "You don't have to—"

"No, I want to." Esca moves closer, and Marcus thinks, maybe, that he sees a hint of an encouraging smile. "You more than anyone deserve to know the truth, and it is better that you know now rather than tomorrow. I would rather not take you into a situation where you have no idea what is going on."

Marcus swallows hard and remembers that hunter from the Selgovae. "I speak some British now," he offers, in that language.

"That won't be the only problem," Esca says, and then sighs heavily, as though he's been hit. "You can probably guess most of the truth, anyway, now. You're far from stupid. Why don't you tell me?"

"About you?" Marcus blinks. "You want me to tell you about yourself?"

He can see the shadowy outline of Esca give a small shrug and a nod. "I can fill in the details."

Marcus finds that his throat has gone dry. "You're Brigantes," he rasps. "You're of royal blood, or something akin to it." He waits for Esca's tiny nod. "The Caledonii killed your family, and you'd like to kill them. Do I have it rightly?"

That much Esca has told him, or practically so, and he isn't surprised when Esca nods.

"I am the only living child of Cunoval," Esca says, after a while, and suddenly Marcus remembers the name in the song. The hound prince. "I wouldn't expect you to have heard of him, but he commanded five hundred warriors. A large clan, by anyone's reckoning. And, yes, descended from the old queen. We were always loyal to Rome, as she was." Esca's voice chokes and breaks. "And so we died for it. They died. All except me, and I would that I had as well."

Marcus is seized with the desire to move closer, to hold Esca, to comfort him, but he knows Esca would be too proud to accept. "I am glad you did not."

But Esca seems not to hear him. "Seven years ago, it was, with the Caledonii trickling south past the wall a few at a time, so no one would suspect. No one ever suspected. They would have preferred to fight Romans, I am sure, but dishonorable as they are—" a cold laugh— "it was much easier to fight Rome's allies, a people without any of your fine arms and armor, wouldn't you say? Not that anyone, any of our allies, ever came to help us. It was over too soon, all in a night. I like to think that there would have been aid, if the Romans had had word, but I can't ever know that, I suppose." His voice is raw and harsh, and he ducks his head. "They slew the women and the children too. Everyone. At least they only killed them quickly, not—" he breaks off, clearly unwilling to say it. "You know what happens in warfare."

Marcus nods. He doesn't even know if Esca is looking at him, in the darkness. But Esca keeps talking.

"I was wounded, and they left me for dead. And when I woke, of course, our allies had come, but too late. And I— as soon as I was healed enough, I knew what I had to do. I had to avenge them." Esca's voice has gone strangely blank now, as if he is speaking of someone else. "So I found others who were willing to help me, who had already sworn themselves to my father and then to me, and we all enlisted."

"Why the army?"

Esca shrugs, and Marcus can see that motion, at least. "The old loyalty, I suppose. That, and I knew I would be trained and armed better than my own people would be able to do for me. And we would even be posted here, north of the Wall." Marcus can almost see him wrinkle his nose. "I refused Dacia."

Marcus decides that is Esca's way of trying to lighten the mood. "I see you like it here."

"I do." Esca's smile is visible, a quick flash of teeth. "It is not home, but it is closer to the Caledonii."

Marcus shifts uneasily and wonders if Esca ought to be telling him this. His mind fills with all-too-vivid pictures of mutiny, imagined scenes of men in chaos, revolting, rising up, as Esca might command them to attack. "Is it truly close enough to the Caledonii?" He chooses his words with care.

"Of course." Esca moves closer, and he can see another half-smile on the man's face. "I'm not going to steal the century and lead them north. I would not do that to you. I swear it on—" he pauses, and then seems to frown— "my father's dagger. The only thing I have of my family."

Marcus can't help but turn his head toward the pile of Esca's gear, no doubt with his dagger within it. "It is good that you have something to remember him by, at least."

And Esca laughs. "Ah, Marcus." His voice is hesitant, a very odd thing for him. "It is... not that dagger."

It takes Marcus a while to understand; the statement doesn't make sense, at first. As far as he knows, Esca only owns two, and Esca gave him one, so that leaves—

Oh. Esca can't have. He couldn't have. But he did.

"You gave me your father's dagger." Marcus closes his eyes. "Me." He can't quite believe it. Why would Esca have done that? What does that mean to him? It must mean something. It has to.

"Yes." Esca ducks his head, still sounding reluctant.

He has to ask. "Why?"

"I—" Esca pauses. "You needed a British dagger." He makes it sound as though that is all it is, when this cannot be true; from his slow, halting words, it means more to him than that. "And you were kind. You brought us the tents. You seemed like a man I could trust."

Marcus wants to ask if Esca does that for everyone, or if it is only him. But he does not know whether he wants Esca's answer to be yes or no—is it worse if Esca likes him even in some way, when Marcus' own feelings are unrequited, or if Esca does not?—so he bites his lip. If Esca wants to treat it as something insignificant, so it will be.

"I thank you." There, that is safe enough.

Even the way Esca holds himself is uncertain, as if there is more here than he is telling—but Marcus cannot make himself push Esca on this.

"You deserve to carry it," Esca says softly, and the words fill Marcus with a warm pride, the sort of feeling he had as a recruit when he had done something well. It is odd to feel it again now, since Esca does not command him, but it is pleasant nonetheless. 

Esca smiles, and he sees that well enough even in the dark, and it occurs to Marcus that Esca must know exactly how he is making him feel. And he wonders, what if? What if he moved closer, or Esca did? Men find companionship before battle in these sorts of circumstances, after all, and no one else would have to know—

Then Esca moves back and the moment is broken. It was a mad thought, anyway; he must have misread Esca somehow. And it is wrong. Of course it is wrong. There is the chain of command to think of, to say nothing of his shameful desires.

"I'll take the first watch," Esca says, voice ordinary now, as if none of the previous conversation happened. Marcus had been imagining it after all. "You need your sleep to meet the Brigantes."

"As do you," Marcus points out, though he is already moving to lie down as Esca has said; he will not think about how easily he does what Esca tells him, how he wants to— Marcus shakes his head to clear it, and then finally something else about Esca's behavior occurs to him. "Are you afraid?"

In another man, it would have been obvious, but he has never seen fear in Esca before, not like this, and Esca is so hard to interpret. He wishes he hadn't said it as soon as Esca's back stiffens as he walks away, and he knows he was right, at least with that guess.

"Yes," Esca says, quietly.

He can't seem to stop the questions now that he has started. "That they won't believe you? Or—"

"I am not afraid for myself, Marcus." Turned away, Esca is barely audible, but then he lifts his head over his shoulder and forces a wan smile, before he disappears into the shadows. To guard him.

Marcus sleeps fitfully, and when Esca wakes him for his watch, Marcus finds he already has his hand on the dagger when his eyes open. And Esca smiles to see it. It must mean something.

* * *

They come upon the Brigantes in the morning. It is a bright, clear day, and the sound of horses and people is audible from a distance. It feels bizarre already to Marcus, having been a scout for barely two months now, that he and Esca should keep riding toward them, that they should not instead strive to take cover and observe. But meeting them is the point, and Esca reins his mare to a halt in the middle of the slightly-worn trail just ahead of Marcus, blocking the way. They will confront them.

Esca looks back, and Marcus can again see the hint of fear in him, the way his eyes widen and his expression tenses. "Let me do the talking," he says, half-pleading, and Marcus suspects it is the last he will hear out of him in Latin for a while.

"They are all yours." Marcus lifts a hand in agreement. He would not dream of speaking, himself, unless they ask him something directly; his British is not yet that good, and they will certainly know he is a Roman if he opens his mouth.

The fear leaves Esca's eyes, then, as he draws himself up in the saddle, noble and proud in his bearing, and Marcus sees now that he is truly a chieftain's son, a man born to rule a clan, and it is nearly unbelievable that a man such as this would be content with being an optio, with being subservient to anyone, much less him—

And then the Brigantes are there, the lead riders slowing and then stopping, suspicion plainly written across their faces. Esca was right; something is wrong here, for these people are not warriors. Oh, that is not to say that none of them are armed—for it would be foolish not to be, and as Marcus watches, the man in front drops his hand to his sword-hilt—but even through the haze of trail dust Marcus can tell that the riders behind him are not girded for war. They wear bright tunics, checked braccae, gleaming jewelry—all things that would be impractical for battle. They do not intend to attack anyone. And though the Votadini warriors had hidden themselves in such a manner, Marcus knows that somehow these people are as they appear.

Esca is the first to speak. "Greetings, cousin," he calls out in British, and his voice rings out confidently, full of the same assurance as his manner.

The first man seems taken aback, and as he draws close enough to be properly seen Marcus wonders if they are cousins in truth and not merely members of the same tribe. The man is light-haired, as Esca is, and although his eyes are not quite the same shade of blue, the lines of his face are cut with similar hard angles, though the longer hair and drooping moustaches hide the exact shape of his features. He is built a little heavier than Esca and much taller as well—probably even taller than Marcus—and the hand that tightens on the hilt of his sword is covered in intricate dark tattoos, disappearing under his sleeve. Around his neck is a torc, shining golden, and Marcus knows this man is the leader here.

But he does not recognize Esca—or if he does, he hides it well—for he calls back, in a gruff voice, "Who are you, stranger? Who are you, to call me cousin?" The words are only a little difficult for Marcus to follow.

Esca is in front of him, facing the Brigantes, but he can see Esca's back lift as he pulls himself up as much as he can, in the manner of someone who has a right to say such things, to be here. When he speaks, his voice is stern, with a kind of power in it. "I am Esca, son of Cunoval."

The other man laughs harshly. "Cunoval is seven years dead, boy, and his clan with him. Tell us another story."

"It is the truth." Esca will not be dissuaded. "He is dead, yes, but I am still his son. And you should know me." He pauses. "Balcorix, isn't it? Or your brother Metto ought to know me, if he is here." He makes a show of craning his neck to look back among the other riders.

The man—Balcorix, Marcus supposes—does not seem moved by this. "He is not here. But now that I think about it, I remember there was a survivor." And then he frowns and looks thoughtful, and he finally seems to see Esca for who he is. "Ah, you're the one who ran off to join the Romans, aren't you? Learned to read their language and all. Practically one of them yourself. I remember you now. Left all of us behind, and took as many with you as would go. You had some foolish notion of vengeance against the Caledonii."

Esca nods. "I am pleased you remember me."

Balcorix raises an eyebrow. "Will you and your friend—" and his gaze turns to Marcus now— "let us be on our way, then? We had hoped to reach a town by nightfall." The commanding presence Balcorix was probably hoping to have is rather spoiled by his horse neighing loudly and tossing its head.

"Actually, no," Esca says, coolly. "We will not. That is why I am here."

"Would you mind explaining yourself to me?"

Marcus is very aware that Balcorix' hand is still on his sword.

"I will certainly tell you everything." Esca tilts his head as if he is deigning to do the man a favor. "Only let us dismount and talk about this properly. My horse at least could use a rest."

Balcorix gives him a grudging nod, and Esca levers himself out of the saddle. Marcus, not knowing what else to do, does the same, and by the time he is on the ground Balcorix is as well.

"Well," Balcorix says. "Now, what is this nonsense about not letting us pass?"

Esca's words are simple, and he pitches them low so the rest of the group does not hear. "You ride into a trap, cousin."

"One which your Romans have been kind enough to let you come to warn us about?" The man snorts. "Do tell."

"I do not know why you ride this way," Esca says, and it is only because Marcus is starting to learn to read him that he can hear the slight edge of desperation in his tone, "or if someone told you to come here, but you will be attacked. The Romans think you have come for a battle." 

"Attacked?" Balcorix throws back his head and laughs. "Does it look to you as if I brought warriors?"

"The Romans think you want Trimontium. If you head any farther north, they will kill you. Go back. Please." Esca is begging now. "Or pick another route, but do not come this way. I have their orders from my centurion. I can show you."

"Trimontium?" He is still laughing. "You are telling tales, boy. Why in the world would I do that? We are trading! And you, you soldier for Rome, yes? You expect me to believe that your _centurion_ —" the Latin word sounds alien on his lips, not like when Esca says it— "bade you come here to warn us, when you say the Romans themselves are planning to attack? I do not believe that."

He has to say something. He has to. Marcus steps forward and clears his throat. "If you like, you may ask his centurion yourself." He only hopes his pronunciation is not too awful, but he suspects that is not why the Brigantes are staring at him now.

And Marcus is not surprised to find that Balcorix' blade is at his throat. Marcus is curiously numb to it, in fact, as he lifts his head higher and holds his arms out away from his side. He does not want to seem to be reaching for a weapon. And if he is to fall here, so be it; it will be as the Fates have decided for him.

"Put your sword down," Esca says, and more than anything else he sounds irritated. "Or do you think I did not know who I was traveling with?" He gives Marcus a glare, a pointed suggestion that Marcus ought to have kept silent instead. "Yes, he is my centurion, and I would not appreciate it if you killed him."

"But he is—"

"I trust him." Esca's eyes blaze hot with anger. "He is defying his own orders to do this for me. To help you." His voice is more formidable than any weapon. " _Down_."

Balcorix stares at Esca, then shifts his gaze to Marcus, eyeing him all along his body, and then he steps back and lets his arm slacken, dropping the blade away.

"It was... suggested that we come this way," Balcorix admits, clearly begrudging every word of it.

Esca, of course, jumps on the statement. "By whom?"

"Some men of the Votadini," he says, and Marcus can already tell Esca's thoughts on this by the way his eyes widen. Esca no doubt thinks it is another example of them working with the Caledonii, as he has suspected, never mind the fact that they have only seen the one Caledonii man and many, many Votadini.

"And what did they tell you, exactly?"

"It seemed reasonable." Balcorix is starting to sound defensive, now, and this is a good sign, Marcus thinks; it means he is believing them. "We had intended to come north to trade with the Selgovae, and they said only that this route would be the best. And so far it has been a safe and easy journey."

"North of the wall, the Votadini have been killing any allied with Rome, or any they think might like to be."

Marcus cannot help but add a third part to that. "And they've been killing Romans." There was Laetinianus, after all, and he surely was not the only one.

Balcorix glares at Marcus when he speaks, though he addresses himself to Esca. "And you think they are like your hated Caledonii? Many hate Rome, especially in the north. Why should they all be the same?"

"It doesn't matter who I think they are." Esca's voice is low, but still commanding. "They want you dead, and the Romans have orders to kill you."

"You are certain, Esca?"

Enough of this. "You speak Latin, yes?" Marcus asks, roughly, in that language; the man surely understands some Latin, if he is indeed from Isurium, for Rome has settled that land thickly. And without waiting for a reply he recites all of his orders, as he remembers them. He thinks he may even be copying Suilius' tone as he does it.

Tense now, Balcorix flicks his eyes from one to the other of them, and they have him now, Marcus knows. "You truly trust this man, Esca?"

"More than anyone, I trust Marcus Aquila," Esca says, and Marcus tries not to focus on the quick blossom of warmth in his heart. He might have misheard Esca. "As I have already said, I do. And think, cousin: if you listen to me, you will find a new track and you will be but a few days late to your destination. If you do not, you will be dead. It will cost you little, with your very life as a reward."

"I have never been as fond of Rome as your clan was," Balcorix says, and, oh, that is plain to see. "And you are asking me to believe this man's orders as though I were oath-sworn. I am not his soldier."

"Ah, but I am." Esca gives him a strange half-smile. "If you want to talk of oaths and obligations, cousin, know that he bears my father's dagger."

And Esca reaches out, then, and hooks two fingers into Marcus' belt, where the dagger still hangs. Marcus tries not to shiver at the touch, and watches Balcorix blink several times as his face turns to a look of surprise.

"You could have started with that," he says, finally. "Very well." And then he turns to Marcus. His nostrils flare in anger, but there is none of that in his words. "I suppose I believe you, Roman."

Marcus inclines his head. "Thank you."

The man still seems faintly bewildered. "I only would know from you, what have you done to impress my cousin so? And why help him?" He asks this in Latin, Marcus supposes, out of kindness.

The first question Marcus cannot answer. He wishes he could, but he does not even know what the dagger means. It has some meaning, perhaps, but why will Esca not say? The second question is his, though, and he answers it. "Because he asked me to. Because he has saved my life, and for him I would save his people, if I can."

"It is honorable of you," Balcorix says, "as the stories say Romans once were to us. And since you are here to save us, know that we will give aid if you need it. You have only to send word."

Marcus can hardly imagine the circumstances under which they might be helpful, but he nods, anyway. "I will remember that."

"You are leaving?" asks Esca.

Balcorix nods and is already moving toward his horse. "We will take a different path to the Selgovae. And, cousin—" he smiles— "you are free to come with us, if you like. We would always take you in. You are Cunoval's son, and I see you are as proud as he was; you cannot like to bow your head."

Marcus holds his breath as something within him clenches, hard and painful. Esca could leave. Esca is practically a prince himself; why should he stay? He could run, Marcus knows, and never be found.

For long breaths Esca does nothing, and Marcus waits for him to step forward, to leave him behind—

But Esca gives a strange, faint smile, and raises his hand, sending the man off. "There is honor in serving, and I know you have never understood that. I am the centurion's man, and I am sworn to him."

Balcorix shakes his head in incomprehension as he mounts up. "You are right, I do not understand. Farewell, then, cousin."

"Farewell," Esca echoes.

The Brigantes are gone more quickly as they came, as they wheel their horses around and Balcorix leads his through the group, heading back down the path, and then it is the two of them, alone.

He cannot quite tell if Esca is sad, a leader without a clan, but then Esca's face shifts and he smiles broadly. "It worked. It is good fortune that it was Balcorix. I thought he might not believe us—"

"I thought he might kill me," Marcus says, dazed with sudden relief.

"I told you to keep quiet." The rebuke is almost fond.

"You wouldn't have been able to if you were me."

Esca seems to consider this. "Perhaps not."

"Well," Marcus says. "I don't suppose I'll have the chance to formally thank you for this—" he does not think he will have the time for any sort of acknowledgment that Esca's plan saved so many lives, not before he is disciplined— "but I am glad that this worked well and your people will be safe."

"I am grateful to you," Esca says, and his eyes shine with something bright he does not say.

When they are back on their horses, riding north again, it occurs to Marcus: "You know, you did swear your loyalty-oaths to Rome, not to me." He would remember if Esca had sworn anything. He would.

"Ah, Marcus," Esca looks over his shoulder and smiles. "What did you think the dagger meant?"

Marcus cannot help but smile back, even as he knows he is riding into his own disgrace, perhaps death. He has acted with honor, his own honor, and that is what is important now, he sees. It is a dangerous thought, an un-Roman thought, not to favor the state above all, and perhaps it is why befriending the Britons was a danger. But it is too late: he is gone, and he would not have it any other way.

* * *

It happens faster than he had thought; Marcus had thought he would go back to the century, prepare himself, and then turn himself into the tribune on his own, there to face the insubordination charges. But when they reach the garrison, he sees that the choices have already been made for him, for the sentries do not open the gate, and in fact a soldier is there with a spear, further barring the way.

"Centurion Aquila?" the man asks.

Marcus nods. There is no point in denying it, not when they have been waiting for him. He would not deny it, at any rate; he has disobeyed the tribune's orders, and he will take the punishment he deserves. He may be many shameful things, but let none call him a liar, nor a coward.

The man signals to the sentries on the walls, and slowly the gate creaks open. "You're wanted at headquarters immediately." He glances over at Esca. "My orders say both of you are. We'll take the horses."

So they dismount, and Marcus holds his head high as he walks through the camp with Esca beside him, down the long wide road to the center of the camp. He has done the right thing here, and if any see, this is how they will see him. Next to him, Esca looks to be holding himself in much the same manner, proud, his chin lifted in a cast of fierce determination.

"Don't think of telling the tribune it was your idea," Marcus says, quietly. "I am your commander. It is my responsibility, and all the fault falls on me. You did not make me do any of it. It was my doing to disobey orders. You were only acting as I told you. Do you understand?" He wants Esca as far away from this as possible, especially with his history of insubordination. He had already promised Esca's obedience, and he does not want to think about what might happen to Esca if Esca insists on saying he did not follow the orders.

The sidelong glance Esca gives him is stubborn, as if he had intended to say that very thing, but he relents. "I understand."

When he finally arrives, Suilius is engaged in conversation with a man Marcus does not recognize—by the look of him, a narrow-striped tribune. Possibly he is one of the equestrian tribunes of the Sixth, up from Eburacum for some reason or other. Well, the man at the gate had said he was to attend Suilius immediately, so Marcus stands there, waiting, until the tribune notices him.

Then Suilius looks up, and the pleasant, respectful, deferential face he had worn for the other man—who undoubtedly outranks him—darkens blood-red with anger. "Aquila," he says, and makes the name crackle crisply. "How good of you and your barbarian to join us, finally."

What else can he do? Marcus salutes. "Sir." He waits for the tribune to introduce the other man, but he does not.

"Before I punish you, Aquila, would you be so kind as to tell me exactly what you have done that necessitated disappearing for two days, taking two horses, and leaving the rest of your century here? Because it certainly was not for the purpose of obeying your orders, was it?" Suilius snaps out the question like a blow, the thrust of a sword.

Marcus clears his throat. "Sir, I went to meet the Brigantes."

"You did what?" Suilius is visibly rattled; he wasn't expecting that, Marcus knows. Marcus can hardly blame him, for it does sound unusual.

"We talked to them. They were not warriors, nor were they bound for an attack on Trimontium. They were only traders. And they agreed not to come this way." It is sounding even more ridiculous as Marcus says it.

He knows Suilius does not believe him; he was not expecting the man to. "Why did you do such a thing, Aquila? They were lying, certainly. Why not attack them, as ordered?"

Before he can say anything, Esca steps forward. "Tribune, if I may, I would answer that question." He stands at attention, perfectly formal, as the best of soldiers would, though he is still dressed in British clothing and covered in dust from the trail besides. "I expressed to the centurion that the majority of his century is composed of Brigantes, and therefore would likely refuse to fight."

Damn him, he told Esca not to say anything. It seems they will be ignoring each other about that, today. It is not any consolation that Esca's death will come later than his would have.

Suilius eyes Esca narrowly. "Is it, now? And would this include you?"

Esca evades the question. "I am Brigantes, yes. And when I was told that the so-called warriors had come from Isurium, I knew it was a trick. Indeed, their leader told me that the Votadini had asked them to come that way, no doubt with the hope of having them killed."

"The man could have lied."

"Sir, he was my cousin." And Esca looks at Suilius as if he is nothing. 

Marcus winces inwardly and waits for the reprimand, but Suilius does not take issue with it. Apparently he will accept that even the barbarians understand kinship.

Suilius rounds on Marcus. "Your optio might have lied to you, when he told you what they said."

Will he say this, truly, to Esca's face? Marcus stiffens, and then forces himself to be calm, or as close to it as he can manage. "I have learned some British, sir. I assure you it was as Esca reported it." 

"This is still unacceptable, Aquila." He turns back to Marcus. "You have disobeyed your orders. No matter what your optio thinks of them, no matter what you think, you had your orders. You did not carry them out."

"I understand, sir." Marcus swallows. "I am prepared to accept discipline."

"And you will have it. I order—"

Before Suilius can finish, the equestrian tribune behind him, silent thus far, raises his hand. "Wait."

And Suilius stops. "Sir," he says, "you had wanted to see for yourself how discipline is handled among my cohort."

But the other tribune is shaking his head. "Not like this, Suilius. The legate himself sent me to oversee, and I find that you are doing this? You ordered them into battle on the scarcest pretenses, and now that this centurion and his optio have averted the whole tricky situation without a single drop of blood spilt, you are saying it was not enough because they did not kill people? I disagree."

"But—" Suilius cannot even get a word out. Marcus can hardly believe this is happening. Are they not to be punished after all?

"On the contrary, I think it was an admirable solution. We have many who are skilled at fighting, but it is difficult to find anyone who can negotiate with the Britons." And then he turns to the two of them and smiles. "Aquila, and—I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Esca, sir," Esca says, and when Marcus glances over, Esca looks as astonished as Marcus himself feels.

"Esca, then," he says, and does not even smile at the name. "I will commend both of you to the legate Claudius Marcellus myself. And if you are willing, I will call upon you, oh, perhaps as soon as tomorrow; I am putting together an operation, as I believe you might name it, requiring people of your particular talents. It would be best to have both of you, if you can be spared."

He glares at Suilius; this is clearly an order that they be made available.

Suilius looks cowed now. "They can certainly be."

"Excellent. Then if you are willing...?"

He has not said what the mission is, but Marcus knows that it would not be wise to refuse a tribune of the Sixth. It is more than merely a request. Besides, the man has more sense in him than does Suilius; whatever it is, it cannot be as deadly as the suicidal ambushes Suilius would have them run.

Marcus turns to find that Esca is already looking at him, and they speak as one. "Yes, sir."

"Very good." He smiles, a true, pleased smile, and waves them away. "Go, then. I have matters to discuss with your tribune."

"Sir." Marcus salutes.

Still half-believing that this can be happening, Marcus turns to leave, with Esca beside him.

"Oh!" the man calls out, just as they are leaving. "You will want to polish your best armor."

What will he have them do? Marcus supposes they will find out soon enough, and it is better than discipline or death.

Esca lets out a heavy breath as soon as they are in the camp proper, walking back to the century in the fading evening light.

"Well," Marcus says. "This has been quite a day, hasn't it?"

Esca nods. "I," he says, declaiming his sentence like a great orator, "am going to find some wine. It is a day for it. Care to join me?"

"I thought you were supposed to ready your gear."

At that, Esca smirks at him. "I'll delegate it. It's one of the good things about command, I am told. Then will you come?" 

"I am cleaning my armor," Marcus says, with all the dignity he can muster. "One of us has to set an example."

And Esca smiles at him, seemingly pleased even though Marcus has turned him down, and then laughs, and Marcus feels himself relax, untwisting in a way he hasn't felt in years, free and easy. Somehow, he knows everything will be all right.

* * *

The tribune—Marcus learns from the chatter of the camp that his name is Vestinus—does not call upon them the next day. It is fortunate, because it gives Marcus and Esca both time to ready their gear for this unknown mission. He does not even send word as to what it might be, and Marcus wonders at this as he sharpens his gladius outside the tent. His mail-shirt has been cleaned with the usual sand and is ready, but he is abashed to admit that it is the only armor he has. Another centurion might save up his pay for the finest parade-gear, a breastplate ornamented in gold, but he has never done such, always thinking that the son of the Ninth's centurion would be unlikely to be asked to march in an emperor's triumph or any other situation where such dress would be required.

Besides, this Vestinus is surely not planning any parades here in the wild north. No, it is more likely that it is more scouting of some sort—after all, it is what they are, scouts and spies—and that the armor is needed for battle. He supposes he will find the truth out soon enough, but in the meantime he packs his gear as if for a scouting mission. There is no harm in being prepared.

He does not see Esca most of the day, except in glimpses as he strides across the camp carrying pieces of armor in various states of repair, and he knows not to bother him. So he calls Paetinus in and puts him in charge of the century, temporarily, because someone has to give orders while he is gone. It is a confusing conversation.

"So," Paetinus says, blinking. "You and Esca are going, but you do not know whither, and you do not know when, and you cannot tell me how long you might be gone?"

Marcus tries to look as though this is completely reasonable. "Yes, and you are to have charge of the century in our—my—absence. I trust you will lead them well."

To his credit, the man salutes, though the expression on his face is dubious, as though he does not quite believe the situation. "Sir."

If Suilius wants someone else there in his absence, Marcus thinks with relish, he can deal with that himself.

A messenger comes that evening. His missive says that, in place of morning muster, he and Esca are to report at dawn to the main gate, girded with arms and armor and ready to ride. There are no further details. He could wish for more, but clearly the nature of this is to be kept secret.

He finds Esca and passes the tablet on, and Esca raises his eyebrows as he reads it.

"Whom do you think we will fight?" Marcus asks. Esca knows the tribes better than he does, certainly; his assessment of the situation is valuable, and this is not at all evidence of Marcus inventing an excuse to be in Esca's presence. Certainly not. He may be pleased to be in the man's company, but that is not at all relevant.

But Esca shakes his head. "I do not think they want us for battle."

"Then why battle-dress?"

"I don't know." Esca shrugs. "But I have the tribune's words in mind, and he sounded as if he was pleased by the negotiation, and not by fighting."

"Well, we will see."

Esca smiles at him and Marcus gives up the pretense of telling himself he did not come here to see that smile. Why lie to himself? He need not ponder the terrifying half of his desires, but there is no point in pretending the rest of it to himself.

"So we will. I'll see you in the morning, Marcus," Esca replies, his voice pitched low, and there is something in the tone that makes Marcus think that maybe, perhaps, if he only stepped forward, reached out—

He is imagining things.

And so he goes alone to his own bed.

He is up early, wrestling with his own armor in the dim gray light before dawn, and cursing himself that already he is so unaccustomed to his own gear, that the armor he has worn for years should now feel so strange to him. At least his body remembers the ritual. Tunic. Breeches, since they are to go riding. Sandals, then greaves—ah, but those are new, and he fumbles with them. Subarmalis. Mail. Belts for gladius and dagger. He pauses, weighing Esca's dagger in his hand, and wonders for a fleeting moment if he should have his old one instead, but the feeling of immediate and visceral wrongness that sweeps through him at the thought makes the decision for him. Esca's. Always, for as long as he permits Marcus it.

Marcus settles the helm heavily on his head, nearly wincing at the weight that he has so easily forgotten the feel of, fastens it, and then does a credible job, he thinks, pinning his own cloak at the shoulder. He is ready, but he feels... odd, he decides. Putting on the armor used to make him feel proud, like he was bearing the honor of Rome just as a signifer would. Now it seems to him as an actor's mask at the theater, the braggart soldier in the plays who stands tall and boasts of his glory and fame, and he can hardly imagine wanting to be that man. He shakes his head, carefully, to try to clear his strange thoughts, and steps out.

Esca is waiting for him. He wears the same armor as Marcus ordered him to, that day they met, and he looks no less fierce. But he is not terrifying, not any longer, now that Marcus knows him, and Esca grins like he is truly pleased to see him. His helm, Marcus notes with some annoyance, is still tucked under one arm; will nothing induce him to wear it?

"Now will you put that on?" He gestures to the helm. "We are dressing for battle, after all."

Esca smirks and with the exaggerated movements of someone who is only doing a thing to humor the asker, sets it on his head and fusses a little with the tufts of hair. "As you wish."

At the gate, they are met by the tribune Vestinus, some men with horses for them, and the strangest party of travelers Marcus can remember being part of. He and Esca are the only ones in full armor; there are a few slaves in plain tunics, two officious-looking men in togas—civilians? here?—but the majority are officers of the Sixth, like the tribune, some bearing only their arms with their tunics, though Vestinus himself wears parade-gear, as do a few others. Esca was right; they cannot be riding to war, not like this.

"Thank you for coming," Vestinus says, approaching them.

How could he do otherwise? "Sir, we are here as you have ordered."

"I suppose you will want to know why I asked you here." The man smiles warmly, and Marcus finds that he likes him. "I did not want to spread the news about, but there is a clan of the Selgovae ready to ally with Rome, and you see here the delegation. You are to join it."

Marcus frowns. "Neither of us are diplomats, tribune." 

He knows he has no way with words, and as for Esca, if his usual straightforward nature is any indication—well, Marcus shudders to think of the havoc he could wreak during a negotiation, where everything must be phrased delicately. On the other hand, the Selgovae are all Britons too, and perhaps they will be just as direct; many other Britons of Marcus' century certainly are.

"Oh, you are not expected to be," the man assures him. "We have those already," he adds, tilting his head at the men in civilian dress. "But it would be useful for us to have a few men who understand the ways of the Britons, and the language. And—" he seems to be choosing his words carefully— "I believe it would help our treaty for them to see the two of you as you are."

Marcus does not quite understand what he means by that, but Esca looks thoughtful and nods. And if Esca understands and agrees, that is enough for him; he is sure Esca will explain it to him if he wishes. Esca seems far more easy about telling him things now, any sort of things, than he was before. He will never be unguarded, Marcus knows, but he knows too that Esca trusts him. 

So Marcus murmurs his agreement, and soon enough they are mounted and off.

The clan's village, he learns, is far to the west, through many lands already held by Roman allies, and the fields are smooth and cleared, the ground even. It is the easiest journey Marcus has made since coming here. And, as the group proceeds at a leisurely pace, with the two of them at the end, he has plenty of time to bring his horse alongside Esca's—the same chestnut mare, again—and talk as they ride. It is not as if there is anything else to do, and it is a distraction, of sorts. Letting his thoughts wander is dangerous, as they so often wander to improper places, especially where Esca is concerned. No, he must not even think that—

"What do you think the tribune meant?" Marcus asks, and hopes that didn't sound too sudden.

"About what?"

Marcus dares a glance over at Esca, who now gleams, bright with metal, in the sun. Esca is carrying himself proudly in the saddle, head held high even with the weight of the crested helm, as he had the other day with the Brigantes. Dressed as he is, he ought to seem Roman, as any soldier would look in that uniform. But Esca, somehow, looks even more British, with the edge of his tattoos twining under the pteruges and the red cloak making him look paler than any Italian. He is both things together, somehow: the wild Briton and the perfect, composed soldier. It is an intriguing appearance, and he wants more than anything to simply look at him and keep looking, for he would never tire of him. Marcus swallows hard and tries to remember his question.

"Why we are here, I mean."

Esca looks thoughtful again. "We're an example, wouldn't you say?"

"An example of what?"

"What the Selgovae could be." He lifts a hand off the reins to make a sweeping gesture, taking in both of them. "They could be me, a soldier, with a commander such as yourself. And Vestinus thinks to show us off to them, to demonstrate that Rome treats its friends well."

It seems simple, when Esca puts it like that, and oddly pleasant as well, to know that others also might see the two of them as friends.

The village is a little more than a day's ride away, and they stop for the night, as a noisy encampment. None of the soldiers complain, of course, but the civilian negotiators, Hirrus and Chlorus—if ever they were soldiers once, and Marcus thinks that surely they must have been, they have grown unaccustomed now—trade bitter remarks about the quality of the food and the unyielding ground, no doubt used to fine meals and soft beds. Marcus has been spoiled by the peace of scouts, and he gratefully spends his part of the watch with Esca in silence.

They reach their destination in the late morning; Marcus judges it to be the fifth hour or so, but the day is cloudy. At least it is somewhat warm. The settlement is unlike any Roman town Marcus has seen: the buildings are all crude round stone things, thatched with straw, and they are laid out in a haphazard manner, nothing like the neat lines of Roman planning, with everything having its familiar place. He wonders how it is that the people do not get lost. Still, the largest building, in the center of the village, is undoubtedly the chieftain's home, and so they make for it.

The Selgovae are there to greet them. If he had thought the Brigantes were dressed well, why, these people seem determined to outdo them. Their welcoming-party all wear fine new clothing, dyed in bright colors and woven in patterns, and they all shine with jewelry—rings, bracelets, all sparkling with gems. The most intricate piece, a finely-wrought torc, hangs about the neck of an old man who must be the chieftain, and indeed he steps forward, holding his hands out in a friendly manner.

"I am Caletorix," he begins, in British, and his accent is different from Esca's, so it is a little hard to understand him. "I bid you welcome, Romans, as my guests. My son—" and here the man next to him steps forward— "will translate our words."

The son is a man of about Marcus' age, dark-haired and bright-eyed, and he gives them all a very charming smile before he speaks. Marcus is not sure if he is imagining that the man's gaze lingers an instant longer on him.

"Greetings. I am Acros," the man says in passable, if accented, Latin. "My father Caletorix, our chieftain, had me fostered in the south as a boy, and so I learned your tongue. I would be pleased to translate for you. My father says you are welcome as guests."

Vestinus' eyes flick over to Marcus, a silent question— _is he truly saying those words?_ —and Marcus gives the smallest nod he can in response. They are to be trusted.

So, one by one, the members of the embassy step forward, and thus begins the slow laborious task of each one explaining their name and titles—most of them are rendered into British as leaders of some sort—and greeting the chieftain and his family and the most favored of his warriors. They seem to be received well, so far.

As Marcus is the lowest-ranked of the envoy—excepting the few slaves, of course, who are not introduced—he steps forward last, and he feels rather than sees Esca stop just behind him, at his shoulder. It is a stance that surely has some significance, for a few warriors murmur to each other—can they not have noticed Esca is British? Perhaps they assume that everyone in the uniform is a native Roman. Acros stares at both of them in confusion; whatever they are is clearly inexplicable. 

"Who are you?" Caletorix asks, brow furrowed, and Marcus gives thanks that the words are simple enough that he can understand that. Acros opens his mouth to translate, but Marcus waves him off. He can answer this.

"My name is Marcus Flavius Aquila." At least he has learned to say that in British.

A ripple of surprise goes through the assembled crowd, and even Caletorix is not immune. They had not expected this, and why should they have?

"You know our language."

Marcus nods. "Yes. I am a warrior—" he is a little shaky with the grammar, but perseveres through the rest of the sentence— "who leads others in battle. My men are Brigantes, and they taught me the language."

He thinks that perhaps Caletorix looks impressed, although it is difficult to tell, and he is not sure whether they quite liked the mention of the Brigantes, but it is, after all, the truth.

"That is most intriguing," Caletorix says, finally. "I have not heard of very many Romans who cared to learn our language." His gaze settles on something just past Marcus, and he knows without turning that the man is looking at Esca. "Who have you brought with you, then?" He does not address the question to Esca himself, but rather to Marcus; Esca has somehow positioned himself as subordinate. It is irking Marcus, somehow, that Esca has done so—is he not of just the same rank among the Brigantes as this man's son is here?—but he is pleased to be able to introduce Esca.

Marcus finds he is smiling in pride, and he does not bother to conceal it. "This is Esca. He is my—" Marcus' mind goes blank. How in the world does he say _optio_ in British? He fumbles his way through a few more words. "He is the one I have chosen—" no, that is only the Latin, and does not make sense unless one knows what an optio does already— "er, I command him—" and no, that is not quite right either, even though he technically does. His face is starting to grow hot with shame; he is making a fool of himself in front of the entire delegation.

He turns, frantically, to Esca behind him, and he whispers in Latin, "How do I tell them you are my optio?"

And Esca steps forward, giving the group a respectful look and a nod of his head toward the chieftain, recognizing his authority. Marcus relaxes a little; perhaps Esca will not say anything too awful.

Esca smiles the smooth smile of a diplomat, as if he has practiced this. "My apologies for interrupting," he says, in his best British, and Marcus notes the shocked mutterings from the few people who clearly had not figured out that Esca is one of the Brigantes that Marcus had mentioned. "I believe that he means to say I am his—"

Esca ends the sentence with a look of warm fondness in Marcus' direction. Marcus cannot make out the ensuing word, except that it sounds a little like _shield_ , and that hardly makes sense to him.

It makes sense to everyone else, though, because the chieftain's face brightens in recognition—and oddly, he thinks he hears a few people laugh to themselves, in an undertone, but the looks of amusement are quickly covered.

"Oh, that is a fine thing indeed!" Caletorix says, jovially. "Why did you Romans not tell us this before? We are not so very different after all, and it is a good sign for the future, the two of you, is it not?"

What in the world has Esca called him? Marcus shifts awkwardly and tries to come up with something to say. "The others—" he indicates his superiors— "did not know of us before." _And I have no idea what I'm talking about_. "We two were only asked to come here yesterday. If they had known it would please you I am sure they would have told you of us beforehand."

This seems to satisfy the chieftain, for he nods, and they are waved off in dismissal.

As they take their places again at the back of the envoy the chieftain begins to introduce his family, his wife, his sons with all their names and titles, but Marcus isn't even listening. When the introductions are done he grabs Esca by the arm.

"What did you call me?" he asks, in Latin, and hopes his voice doesn't sound quite as plaintive to Esca as it did to him.

"Oh, that?" Esca smiles and says the word again, and then, thankfully, repeats it in Latin. "I said that I was your shield-bearer. It seemed the nearest thing to an optio."

Marcus frowns. "Is that not akin to a slave or servant? You are a chieftain's son, as you told me."

"Don't worry about that, Marcus," he replies, hastening on in reassurance. "I serve you gladly. And it is an honorable thing, a pact between two warriors. You see, the chieftain judged it so." And indeed, Esca looks proud as he says it, smiling broadly, but for some reason his face is a little flushed and he looks down.

Shield-bearer. Marcus turns the word over in his mind. It sounds like an honorable sort of thing to him, certainly, if it is for warriors. Esca would not have told the chieftain that they were anything to each other that was dishonorable. But, then, that does not quite explain the laughter he thought he heard, or why Esca who says anything and everything shamelessly is nearly blushing.

"Some of them were laughing," Marcus points out, bewildered.

"Oh, were they?" Esca says, his voice bland and even. "I didn't notice." But he doesn't meet Marcus' eyes.

Several thoughts occur to him, then, in rapid succession, about what sorts of things one might say concerning two people together. Oh.

"Esca," he asks, very, very carefully, "does this word have any other meanings?"

Looking up, Esca only smiles at him and says nothing.

* * *

The actual treaty process is incredibly slow and uninteresting, though Marcus has to admit that it is easier than lying still and silent in the mud for hours on end. His task, he finds out, is to stand impassively in the back behind everyone, almost too far away to hear, and observe, for he has no actual duties here. Esca stands next to him, every so often tilting his head as though he wishes to remove his helm, but Marcus suspects they are not permitted to. They are to look the part of the model soldiers.

At first Chlorus and Hirrus produce a treaty, words scrawled on papyrus that they hand over, wave about, and in general attempt to convince Caletorix to place his mark upon. But the chieftain is smarter than that—Marcus wonders if perhaps the two think all Britons are stupid—and demands that it be read and translated for him before he will agree. So Hirrus reads it out and the chieftain's son again translates, or attempts to. While Acros' Latin is serviceable, it is clearly not up to the challenge of translating a complex legal document, and he begins to stumble not even a third of the way through the piece.

"And now they say—" Acros stops, suddenly, and shakes his head. "I am sorry, I do not know that word."

Marcus feels a sudden burst of sympathy for the man. After all, he himself was having difficulties earlier with translating one simple word, and he knows exactly how the man must feel, except that this situation is worse, because the treaty hinges upon the man knowing British. Marcus would offer to help, but he knows that his own command of British is not perfect, and he would hate to inadvertently choose the wrong word.

Just as he had for Marcus, Esca steps forward. "Excuse me," he says politely, in British. "May I be of service?"

The Roman contingent looks confused, and Marcus hastens to explain in Latin, feeling himself responsible for Esca's behavior. "Sirs, my optio volunteers to help translate, if you are willing."

He hopes he will not need to vouch for Esca's loyalty here before everyone, and indeed he does not, for Chlorus nods, and Esca takes this as his cue to remove the helm that has plagued him so and move closer to see the treaty spread out across the table. He promptly mouths it to himself, a bit at a time, in Latin, and then lifts his head to translate the words for Caletorix. It is quicker, now, for Esca's Latin is far better than that of Acros, and he can read the treaty himself, besides. Marcus can feel himself smiling a little at Esca's cleverness. There are so many reasons to admire the man.

Marcus finds that the smile he was directing at Esca is intercepted by Acros, who gives him a huge smile of his own, bright with unfeigned gratitude as he gets up from the table. He is running his hands through his hair with the air of a man relieved to take a break from a demanding duty. To Marcus' surprise, the man moves through the crowd until he reaches the very spot where Marcus stands, still smiling at him.

"Thank you," Acros tells him—in British, apparently having reached the limits of his Latin. He is still smiling, and there is something in the smile that Marcus is not quite certain how to interpret. "That was kind of you to offer help."

"Don't thank me," Marcus replies, both because it is the truth and because something in him knots up tightly at the man's compliments, though he knows nothing ill is meant by them. He does not want Acros to say such things to him; he does not want to have to respond to them. "It was Esca's idea, and you should thank him rather than me, though I appreciate the sentiment." He hopes that is graceful enough; learning British from soldiers may have its disadvantages when it comes to niceness of speech.

But Acros still smiles and is looking at him like— like— Marcus does not know what. "You are lucky to have such a good man as your shield-bearer, then."

"I believe I am, yes." And though he is talking to Acros, Marcus knows he is grinning back just thinking about Esca.

"How long has he borne your shield, did you say?"

He is not quite sure how to answer this. The honest truth—that he has only known Esca for a few months, and that Esca has only been his optio since last month—might sound unflattering, for what if a shield-bearer ought to be a friend whom one has known for years? Still, Esca gave him the dagger soon after they'd met, and perhaps that counts for more than any army promotion would.

Marcus swallows and hopes that is long enough to satisfy him. "In truth, it has only been since the spring of this year, soon after I met him. I have only just been posted here; I was in Judaea before."

"So recently?" Acros looks a little surprised at that, but quickly covers it. "Ah, well, sometimes that is the way of it, is it not? That you would meet a warrior and know in that instant exactly how the thing should be between you."

He is uncertain if the two of them are talking about the same thing here, and is uncomfortably put in mind of the quiet snickering he heard when Esca had announced them. But then he remembers how he felt about Esca from the moment he met him, and he thinks perhaps there may be merit to the statement after all.

"I suppose it is," Marcus agrees, and hopes he does not sound too evasive.

Acros, thankfully, does not seem put off. "Do you know, I think your British is better than my Latin? With such a short time to learn. Most impressive." And he smiles again.

This compliment, Marcus has to accept. "Thank you. And I do not think your Latin bad at all—I would not like to read out a treaty, myself, O prince." He nearly calls the man _sir_ but thinks better of it; his allegiances are not here, after all, but it is best to use a respectful title.

And Acros laughs. "You may call me by my name if you like." 

"Certainly, Acros," Marcus tries. He is to be diplomatic; he ought to accede to this sort of request.

He glances back at the negotiating table. "Well, I think I should return to business," he says, making a regretful face. "Though it has been pleasant talking to you, I must say. I do not think we will be seated near each other at dinner, but I would most enjoy the chance to converse with you afterwards, if you are agreeable."

"Of course," Marcus replies, automatically, and Acros gives him another grand smile before making his way back to the negotiating table.

When Marcus turns to follow the man's progress, he sees that Esca has been staring—whether at Acros or him, he cannot tell, but the expression on his face is strange indeed. And then it is gone as Esca drags his gaze back to the treaty and thence to the chieftain.

It is all most bizarre, both Acros' behavior and Esca's. What is it about? It will all make sense later, somehow, Marcus thinks. He can always ask Esca.

* * *

That is the only moment of interest in the long proceedings, and it is hours later when the treaty is finally signed, to the satisfaction of both parties. Acros had mentioned a dinner of some sort, and indeed as the gathering breaks up the chieftain intones that now there will be a celebratory feast within his home, for all the Romans as well as his own kin.

But Marcus can only watch Esca, who picks up his helm and slides through the press of the crowd to greet him, smiling. It is as Acros just did, he thinks, an odd thought, and he cannot quite put his finger on what would make him think the two of them similar.

"I am glad that is over," Esca says, rubbing at his eyes as does a man who has been reading too long. "That was difficult going." He smiles again, and far from making Marcus uncomfortable, this one makes him pleasantly warm.

"I'll buy you a drink," he offers.

Esca laughs, teeth flashing a little in the late-afternoon light. "It's a feast, Marcus. There will be drink enough for everyone, I am certain. More than enough, for truly these people are prosperous."

Oh. "There is drinking at feasts?"

"Why, yes." Esca leans in and grips Marcus by the forearm. The gesture seems somehow possessive, the thought of which ought to bother Marcus but does not; he tells himself he should not ponder this further. "There is everything at feasts. It is wonderful, and you will like it. I have not been to a good feast in near ten years." He sounds a little sad, then; perhaps he is remembering his clan.

Marcus frowns. "But is there a protocol of some sort? I do not know the customs, and I would not wish to cause offense." For if this were a Roman banquet there would be rules he would not expect a Briton to know, like how one enters the room on the right foot, or how the honored guest has a particular spot on a particular couch, and how one must eat well even if the oil is rancid so as not to shame the host.

Esca pats him on the arm, and Marcus can feel his skin go hot where Esca has touched him, and then pimpled with gooseflesh. And it is only an insignificant touch. Esca means nothing by it. "Do not worry about that," Esca says, still smiling, a soothing tone to his voice. "I will be there to help you. Right behind you, in fact."

He is not quite sure what Esca means by this, but is deprived of the ability to reply, as they are promptly ushered into the chief's home. The rest of the village has clearly been at work cooking for this, and the first thing he notices is the smell of roasted meat, instantly making his mouth water; he has been eating gruel and bucellatum for so long that he thinks he may have forgotten the taste.

There is a fire in the center of the room; it provides poor light, but even so he can see that the place is richly decorated with painted walls and various weavings. Many of the Selgovae men are already sitting at low tables, spaced around the fire with enough room for people between them, and the Roman delegation is urged to sit between them. Marcus gleans from the direction that it is all being done by rank, with Vestinus and the negotiators by the chieftain and his family. Marcus himself is asked to sit very far away from all these fine people, at the opposite side of the circle, between two warriors whose names he does not remember; he can hardly see the chieftain through the fire and smoke. Ah, well, he is only a centurion.

Then he notices that Esca has not yet sat down, and he turns his head to see Esca standing behind him, firelight reflecting off his armor. "Esca? Are you not sitting?"

Esca shakes his head. "I am your shield-bearer."

He doesn't understand. "What?"

"I could have told them I carried your spear," Esca says, thoughtfully. "It would be a higher rank for me, but then I would be seated with those men—" he motions toward a second circle of men, off to the side— "and this way I am here to help you."

"So you do not eat?" Marcus frowns. He wants Esca to enjoy the feast.

"Oh, I will," Esca assures him. "But first I am here to serve you, just as these other men serve their fellows. Someone will have to serve the rest of the Romans, of course, but I am sure the Selgovae think it fortunate that you have brought your own man."

Marcus still does not quite comprehend this; there is too much information, and all of it too alien to him, but when several more people carry in vessels of drink it begins to come clear, as Marcus waits for them to pass among them and pour out wine—or whatever it is—into the cups that are already set at the tables. But the others do not move, and instead they exit, to fetch meat and thereby repeat the process. It is all very confusing.

"Ah!" Esca brightens, looking around. "What will you have to drink, Marcus? They have wine and beer and mead, it looks to me. The wine is imported and probably soured by now, and, hmm, the beer is from barley, so you will not want that. I enjoy it, but I know how you feel about barley. Oh, but mead! Have you ever had mead? You will like it; I have seen you with your honey-cakes."

Without waiting for an answer he moves to the edge of the room and picks up a pitcher, bringing it back. It smells sweet, like honeyed wine, but it is when Esca bends past Marcus to pick up his cup that Marcus, horrified, realizes what Esca is doing, and he grabs his arm. Esca cannot be doing this.

"Esca, don't!"

Esca's hand shakes. The pitcher sloshes and he nearly spills the drink.

"Don't what?" The firelight reflects the pain and confusion in Esca's eyes.

How can it not be obvious to him? "You are a soldier, a free man, and my friend, Esca," Marcus says, still aghast, enunciating each word clearly. Maybe now Esca will see. "It isn't right for you to carry wine and fill my cup as if— as if you were no more than some slave at a dinner-party!"

"You think I would rather have a mere slave do this?" Esca returns in a low voice, spitting out the words as if he is truly angry that Marcus has said it, which is ridiculous; who can want to be as a slave? "It is a great honor to be your shield-bearer, to serve you with my own hands now as I served you in battle, here at a feast where all can see and know what I am to you. And now you are saying that you would deny me this? Do you really care so little?"

Shocked by Esca's sudden vehemence, Marcus can do nothing for a few moments but draw a long shaking breath and try to make Esca's words make some sort of sense.

"I think," he concedes, finally, "that I have misunderstood your customs. And if it is that important to you, then, yes, of course, I willingly accept your service." He still does not understand, but it is clearly the right thing to do here; it will make Esca happy.

And Esca smiles at him, then, all anger suddenly gone, and lowers his head in a kind of acknowledgment. "I am proud to be your shield-bearer, and your optio, and anything else you will let me be to you." He fills the cup and presses it into Marcus' hand. "Now drink that, and I will get you some roast boar."

He picks up Marcus' plate along with the pitcher and heads across the room. And just as he does, the last of the delegation, another two tribunes from the Sixth, walk behind Marcus, and he can hear one man's muttered words to the other:

"Look, the centurion's optio is his cup-bearer, eh?"

The other laughs, raucous already even without drink. "Isn't that what you'd expect from barbarians?"

They are gone across the circle before Marcus can say anything, not that he knows what he would say to such a thing. He is shaking, his face grown hot—and it is not the heat of the fire. It is worse because the remarks are not entirely false; or at least, he would like them to be true. Even worse, the voice in his head says, is how he would like it better the other way—

Esca's hand on his shoulder is shocking, and he jumps as a plate is put before him. He doesn't even look. He has no appetite now.

"Marcus?" Esca's voice seems to be coming from afar, even though he must be quite close. "What's the matter?"

"I'm fine," Marcus mumbles, dully, staring down at the plate without really seeing it.

"You're not," Esca says, his voice sharp, and the sound of it makes Marcus look up. "Have some boar, or shall I feed you with my own hands too?"

He knows Esca must have meant it as a rebuke, but the intimacy of the very idea, coming so soon after the man's words, makes Marcus go even redder. "I— I overheard an insult to you."

"Oh?" Esca asks. He does not sound angry, merely inquisitive, as he tilts his head to the side.

"Did you not hear them talking just now? One of the tribunes said—" he ducks his head in shame— "that you were my cup-bearer."

Curiously, Esca is entirely unfazed. "What of it? I'm filling your cup for you, am I not? I don't understand how I am insulted."

Seven years a soldier, among Romans, and Esca has never heard this? Marcus did not think he would have to explain, which makes this even worse. "It is— in the tales, the youth Ganymede was cup-bearer to Jupiter himself," he tries.

Esca frowns. "And that is not a virtuous thing?"

"Well, as I was saying, it is a thing slaves do." Marcus can feel his face grow hotter. "And he was— it is said that he— he was not only a cup-bearer, and so the word means less noble things as well."

Esca still looks confused. "Like what?"

This is very possibly the worst conversation in the entire world. "You told me—or rather, you did not tell me—that being a shield-bearer had certain... implications." At least he gets that sentence out.

And at that, Esca smirks a little. "Perhaps it does."

"They would be the same ones here," Marcus says, "except that nothing about these ones is honorable."

"Oh, Marcus." Esca sighs, and his hand tightens on Marcus' shoulder. "I have never understood why you Romans call so many acts dishonorable when they are no such thing." And before Marcus can wonder more about Esca's words, Esca nudges the cup toward him. "Go on, will you not have some mead?"

Very well; he will try it, to please Esca. He lifts the cup to his mouth and—

He isn't sure what he was expecting, but it is delicious, like drinking honey. Not even watered, it is much stronger than wine, but he finds he does not mind that, and as he puts the cup down he sees Esca watching him for a reaction, and he smiles. "This is very good," he says, surprised. "Like honeyed wine, only sweeter and stronger. What did you say it was, and why have you not shared it before?"

Esca laughs, pleased. "It is only made of honey, and here it is served specially for feasts. Perhaps it takes a while to make; I know little of bee-keeping. But I am glad you like it."

"You should have some," he says, holding the cup out, but Esca pushes it away.

"No, I am serving you—"

"And will there be any left when it is your turn to eat? Go on. If you are serving me, you obey my wishes, yes? It is my wish that you drink it."

This finally convinces Esca to take the cup. "I cannot argue with that."

"Easy there," Marcus warns him, as Esca puts it to his lips. "It's strong—"

And he watches in silent awe as Esca drains the entire cup, his throat working as he swallows. Esca wipes his mouth off and smiles, looking exceedingly pleased with himself. "You were saying?"

"Nothing," Marcus says, faintly. "Only remind me not to have a drinking-contest with you."

"I'll just get you some more mead," Esca says, and disappears again with his cup while Marcus picks at his plate of boar.

It is then that the feast starts in earnest. Caletorix makes a short speech, which Marcus mostly cannot hear, and then the circle erupts into life, the Britons gesturing at each other as if they are arguing, or boasting, from what Marcus can hear—nothing like the erudite conversation of a dinner-party. Most of the Romans valiantly try to point and gesture to their neighbors, to establish some sort of rapport. The men on either side of Marcus seem to be arguing with their companions over who has more cattle. But this all is done in the best spirits, with more meat and drink consumed, and Marcus supposes that this is the way these things go. When Esca comes back, he confirms Marcus' guess for him, and is indeed nudging him and muttering bits of information about this thing or that, about how he does not think they are such great fighters and that they have surely not stolen as many cattle as they claim. And he pours Marcus more mead, and more mead; Esca does not let his cup grow empty.

"I am Albiso," the man next to him says, cheerfully, "and I have killed many in battle, and grown rich with their gold. How have you fared, Roman?"

Marcus blinks, unsure what to say, and he opens his mouth to say that he has won nothing in battle. Oh, he has been paid, certainly, but the spoils of war never went to him.

But Esca cuts in. "Come now," he calls out. "Surely you can see my lord is a better warrior, if gold won is your measure? He has a fine red cloak, and a mail-shirt, and the best weapons. He has even supplied the same for me. I do not see you with such things!"

Marcus cringes at the thought of the diplomatic incident about to be created, but Albiso only laughs. "Wise words from your shield-bearer, Roman, and a true point. But my cattle, certainly, outnumber yours—"

Marcus is about to concede that he has no cattle when the conversation quiets. A man who is almost as richly dressed as the chieftain steps forward, holding out some instrument akin to a lyre.

"Ah, they have a bard." Esca leans forward to whisper this in his ear, and the feel of his breath, so near to him, makes Marcus shudder in agonized delight.

The man strums and begins to sing, and Esca leans forward to tell him the words, because Marcus finds songs confusing to understand. Esca's explanation provides no help, as Marcus cannot pay attention to any of it. He is aware only of Esca, so close behind him, and he can focus on nothing but Esca's presence. The mead is starting to go to his head, he knows; he is more than a little aroused, and it is all he can manage to breathe and try to remain calm.

The song finishes, mercifully, and Esca backs away just enough so that Marcus can think again.

"Did you like that, Marcus?" Esca says, smiling, and Marcus wants nothing more than to kiss him. Oh, he wants other things as well, but he would start with kissing, certainly. That would be most excellent.

"Yes," he replies, not thinking at all of the song.

"Good." Esca leans down and whispers again in Marcus' ear, in Latin, too low for his neighbors to hear. "I know what you're thinking—"

Panic runs through Marcus—

"—and don't you dare tell him you don't have any cattle, by all the gods you worship. Please."

Marcus breathes out, relieved, and then less relieved again as the next thought slowly occurs to him. "But I don't have any cattle." He finds this thought mildly alarming and somehow amusing, as the drink begins to put its filter over the world. "Is that a problem? Do I need cattle?"

Esca snorts. "Let's just say it's a good thing I like you anyway." And he holds out the pitcher again. "Have some more mead."

* * *

Marcus is sitting against a tree. The tree is good. The tree is substantial, and the bark against his back is comforting. The tree isn't going anywhere. He is certain of this, as he ponders how much else of his uniform he can easily remove. The helm was the first to go, of course, and it is now beside him, up against some roots, as he works on the straps of his greaves. They are trickier than he remembered, or perhaps he is more drunk than he should be.

Off in the distance, through the woods, he sees the glow of torchlight, the cleared area where most of the Selgovae warriors and the Roman delegation retired after the feast. Esca had not come—it was his turn to eat, he had said. Go on, he had said. And so Marcus had left alone, but he was not alone for long. 

Acros had found him again, in the crush of the crowd leaving the round-house.

"Will you not come with me?" he had asked, laughing, smiling. "You will not want to miss this. And I would be pleased to talk with you again."

_No_ , Marcus had thought instantly, violently, and wanted to shy away from the man. He barely stopped himself from saying so. He missed Esca, he realized, already, when Esca had only just left. It was ridiculous.

"In a little while," Marcus had replied instead, with some difficulty. It would only be polite to comply with the wishes of the chieftain's son, after all, even if he had found himself wanting Esca's company again already.

And Marcus had fully intended to join the man after he stopped to relieve himself, and then, well, there was the tree.

It seemed like a good idea.

His armor is awfully uncomfortable, he thinks, as he frees one leg. Why has he not noticed this before?

Someone is picking his way through the trees, and Marcus looks up. It is Esca. He smiles, and he can't stop himself from smiling. Why should he want to?

" _Salve, mi Marce_ ," Esca says, grinning broadly, and though there is nothing in his movements that would mark inebriation, Marcus knows just from the greeting that Esca too has been helping himself to the mead. Sober, Esca would never be so familiar with him, and the easy possessiveness of the statement warms Marcus' heart. He is Esca's. He likes that.

"Esca!" Marcus calls out, smiling back. "I missed you." And he has, oh, he has.

Esca comes closer and drops his own helm next to Marcus', then leans, one arm against the tree, looking down at him. "I was watching the fighting."

"Fighting?" Marcus frowns. "Is something not going well?"

"No, no," Esca assures him. "It is another custom at feasts. After the feasting itself is done, there are fights between the best warriors, with swords or daggers or whatever weapon they like."

"If they are all as drunk as I am," Marcus says, and finds he is laughing a little as he says it, even though the thought ought to disconcert him, "surely it is dangerous."

There is a touch against his head, and it is gone by the time he realizes it is Esca petting his hair. "Most of them are not as drunk as you." The words are fond. "And sometimes it is dangerous, yes, but I would wager that Caletorix has been very clear with his men that they are not to hurt the Romans, if any want to fight. So do not worry; I am sure nothing untoward will happen."

Esca's voice is tinged with a kind of longing, and Marcus tries to figure out why.

"Would you not rather be there, fighting?" Esca likes fighting. That is probably what he is trying to say.

"Ah, no." Esca waves his hand and smiles. "I missed you too." 

Something about his words is not right, hesitant, but interpreting that is beyond Marcus, so instead he pats the ground next to him. "Come sit with me, then. It's a very nice tree."

Esca joins him, sitting down, with the attendant jingling and rattling of his armor; he hasn't removed much of his gear, either. His profile, illuminated by the faraway firelight, is beautiful, and Marcus catches his breath at the sight. He can't stop staring. Esca does not seem to mind.

After a long while, Esca speaks. "I had thought you might be with Acros." His words are very slow, careful, as if he is trying very hard to pick the right ones, and even so there is a trace of some emotion that Marcus cannot quite place.

"The chieftain's son?" Marcus is confused. "He said he wanted to speak with me; I thought perhaps I could speak with him later." Marcus does not know how to say that he didn't really want to spend time with the man at all. He still cannot figure out what made him so uncomfortable around him.

"Speak with you?" Esca laughs, and the sound is strangely cruel. Esca never sounds like that. "I suppose that's one word for it."

"What?"

"Did you not see how he was looking at you? He finds you attractive, Marcus." Esca gives that awful laugh again. "It's not conversation he wants. What else do you think goes on at feasts?"

"Oh." He ought to have known, somehow. But how would he have known? And why is Esca acting so strangely?

Esca's eyes flick in his direction, and it seems that he is holding himself still by great force of will, though Marcus can see him trembling slightly. "And if you find him pleasing, I think you should certainly fuck him." The words are delivered with Esca's customary bluntness, made even more direct by drink, but somehow his heart isn't in it.

This does not mean Marcus is not taken aback. "What? Why? How can you even suggest—"

"He likes you, Marcus." Esca shrugs. "As well he should. And he is the chieftain's son. And when we are gone, if you leave him with pleasant memories, then, he will have the ear of his father, and they will remember how Romans have treated them well." He half-smiles. "It softens the blow when the tax-collectors come calling, at least."

"I—" Marcus can't get out the words. _I don't want him_. _It's not him I want, Esca_. And then he sees it, in Esca's narrowed eyes, in the too-careful tone of his words: Esca is jealous of this man. What possible reason could he have? It does not make sense. Acros is nothing to Marcus. "Do you really think it is a good idea?"

"It seems like a good idea to me," Esca says, though his voice suggests anything but.

He would have to impress Acros, though, in order to leave him with these pleasant memories. And even if he wanted to, Marcus does not quite trust his skill. Oh, it is not that he lacks the ability—he is not quite that drunk, yet, and Esca's presence is making the growing arousal harder to ignore—but the plan does hinge upon him being skilled in the amatory arts. He does not want to entrust this entire diplomatic mission to his nonexistent talents.

Marcus ducks his head, shamed. "I do not think I am the man for this task, Esca." Even with the drink, that is as much as he can admit.

He can't say it. But Esca figures out his worry, and his hand closes over Marcus', stroking light patterns along his wrist. No, he thinks, swallowing hard, trying to think about anything else as he feels the touch run all through him, ability is certainly not the problem.

"I'm sure you're a good lover, centurion." Esca sounds happier now, and thoughtful, actually thoughtful, as though he has spent some time considering the matter, and that doesn't make any sense—

He doesn't need to ask. He shouldn't ask. This is a dangerous conversation to have. He can't stop himself. "Are you sure?"

"You are kind. You're the kindest man I know," Esca says, smiling, and Marcus is glad for the compliment even as he is bewildered and ashamed by the turn of the conversation. "I am certain you would see to your partner's pleasure. The chieftain's son would be happy to have you. Or for you to have him," he adds, hastily. "Whichever."

Marcus feels that somehow he has to admit it, now; to say otherwise would be like lying to Esca. He does not want to do that, even as part of him wishes he could let Esca believe him to be a better man than he is. "Esca, I've fucked slaves. Slaves and whores. That is... only about my own pleasure." The prostitutes will say whatever you pay them to, of course, and so he is sure he is not good; every bit of praise always rang hollow. "In truth, I do not know if I could please another. I have never tried."

There. Now Esca knows.

But Esca's voice is gentle, uncommonly so, and his hand tightens on Marcus' wrist. "Ah, Marcus," he says. "Do not speak so ill of yourself. What about when you are with someone you care for?"

"I— I have never been with anyone I truly cared for."

This seems to surprise Esca. "Never?"

"No." He could never afford distractions, before. He cannot afford them now, either, but the madness of love did not ask before descending upon him, did it? And now he is bound in it, bound to Esca, whose solicitousness is only making it worse, because he knows it means nothing—

Esca smiles the smallest of smiles, and even that is beautiful. "Well, it is different when you are with someone you care for."

"Is it?" He finds this hard to believe—after all, the act is the same, is it not?—but Esca would not lie.

"It is. And if someone cares for you as well, he will not mind anything about your past. He knows— he would know that you would try. It could never be bad. I would be glad— he would be glad beyond all measure to finally be with you." Esca stumbles over his words, and Marcus thinks perhaps his heart skips a beat, when he hears the one word instead of the other. "And if it takes time to learn each other, there is no shame in that. The learning is sweet." 

Esca smiles again, and Marcus forgets how to breathe. He knows the look in Esca's eyes now. It is the one written across his own face, he is sure: pure longing, aching for someone he cannot have.

With that slip in Esca's words, with the way Esca looks at him, everything is clear. He has been such a fool. Esca wants him. Esca _wants_ him. Marcus does not know how he could have missed it before, how he could not have noticed all this time, but now it is plain to see. He knew that he wanted Esca, of course—and even Esca knew that—but Esca has been keeping this from him. How? Why, when Esca knew about him? 

Having said this, Esca is silent. He knows what he has said. And he knows Marcus is aware of it. They both know each other's secrets now.

Marcus swallows, breathes in and out, and says it. Someone has to. "Are we— we're not still talking about the chieftain's son, are we?"

Esca could deny it. He could pretend he has no idea what Marcus means by those words. There are a thousand things he could say, a thousand ways this could go, here from this crossroads.

Esca's eyes are wide and dark, and now that Marcus knows to look he sees the lust in them, the need mixed with fear. This will change everything between them. Let it. He wants this. They want this.

"A chieftain's son? Yes." Esca's breathing, ragged and nervous, is audible in the quiet of the night. There are no other sounds; it is as if they are the only two people in all the land. "But not one of the Selgovae."

His thoughts are slowed, and he is nearly dizzy with the headiness of it. "Esca—"

Esca moves closer to him, his face bare inches away, his breath sweet with honey. His hands are on either side of Marcus' head, nearly pinning him against the tree. "Tell me," he says, his voice low, made rough by desire. His gaze pierces Marcus, seeing everything about him; Marcus feels he has already been laid bare before Esca now, and he would not look away, not for anything in the world. "If you want to do this, tell me now, and you will have me. I have waited for you since the day I saw you. I have waited for you to say it, and you have not. And I will not touch you, not unless you say. So _tell me_ , Marcus."

Marcus licks his lips. "Yes," he says, again and again. It seems unreal, now that they are finally here, and he can hardly believe that Esca has asked, that he is saying this. But it is true; he hears the words pour out of him like a river rushing over the banks. "Yes, please, Esca, please, I want you—"

Esca barely lets him finish the sentence, as his hands next to Marcus' head slide in to pull him close.

And then Esca kisses him.

It is nothing like anything Marcus could have imagined. Oh, he has kissed people before—of course he has. It is not as if he is inexperienced. But none of them were Esca. They were welcoming, sweet, pliant, and it was nice enough, certainly, but this— but this—

Esca's mouth on his is hard and hungry, heavy and insistent. And Marcus does not even struggle before yielding, opening his mouth and letting Esca take what he wants. Esca can have him, all of him. Esca responds by biting Marcus' lip, hard, and Marcus moans as the pain runs all through him, transmuting into a strange kind of pleasure, and he half-wonders if he will come before Esca even touches him.

Esca leans in, pushing the two of them closer, and already that is still too far apart. Marcus, not quite as coordinated as he should be, loses his balance and slides unceremoniously down the tree until he is sprawled out on the ground. 

The kiss breaks, but Esca, quick as ever, moves atop him in a jingle and slide of metal until he is covering Marcus, pinning his hands down. It is not the most comfortable thing, with both of them armored, but Marcus finds he does not care. Esca looks at him. His lips are red, and his face is flushed and exultant. Marcus remembers being afraid of this before, but he is not now. He wants this. Esca has him, has command of him, and he can finally let go.

"You're mine," Esca says, fiercely, and his hands tighten on Marcus' wrists. "I did not spend months courting you only to have you swept up by some other, some Selgovae lordling who does not even care for you. Mine," he repeats, and the word sends a thrill through Marcus that is as good as the biting. "I'll mark you, eh? How would you like that, Marcus? Press harder here, kiss harder there, and tomorrow you'll have bruises. You can look at your wrists, feel your neck, and know that I did that to you."

Marcus can't even answer. He can hardly even look at Esca. He wants Esca to do that, he does, oh, he does so much. He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a gasp, and he is half aware of shoving his hips upward, trying to get Esca to touch him, yes, please, anything—

"Oh, you like that." Esca's voice practically curls around him. "So good, Marcus," he murmurs. "You're so good." And it is better than anything, the best praise Marcus has ever received, shining bright, and he wants more than anything to obey, to feel like this all the time.

He opens his eyes to see that Esca is smiling, and the sight of him is so beautiful Marcus can hardly breathe. "Yours, Esca," he whispers, knowing as he says it that it is perfectly true.

Esca smiles even wider, happy in a way Marcus has never seen him before, open and unshadowed. "Oh," Esca breathes out, and frees a hand to trace one finger down Marcus' face, forehead to cheek to jaw, eyes wide and incredulous, like he has been given an unexpected present, a gift beyond all price. "Look at you. You'd do anything, wouldn't you? Anything I asked?"

Marcus would have feared this, once, but that is only a dim, hazy memory, like the fragments of a dream, fading fast from his mind. Now he knows only the ache within him, the desire to please Esca, to do whatever he wants, to let him do anything, to submit.

He does not say anything, not right away. He can only smile back.

Esca leans in, kissing the side of Marcus' neck hard, and Marcus moans when he feels teeth. At the same time, Esca's free hand, too light to feel over the armor before, has drifted down to Marcus' thigh, working up under the pteruges, warm even through the breeches he is wearing.

"Let me," Esca murmurs into his throat. "Let me—"

"Yes," he says, and means it. "Yes, Esca, anything. Anything you want, I'll do it. Please." And it doesn't feel like begging, even though it should. It doesn't feel debasing. It is wonderful to say, because he wants to say it, because Esca wants him to say it. "You can do anything to me. I want you to."

With those last words out of his mouth he feels vulnerable; Esca knows, now. Esca knows everything. He has admitted it all. There is nothing left to hide, and no way to. _What if that wasn't the answer?_ Part of him is sober enough to wonder this, and a distant swirl of unease looms closer, as Esca says nothing. 

Esca inhales sharply, a surprised, questioning sound, pulling his head up, opening his mouth to speak—

And whatever he was about to say is cut off when someone comes crashing through the stand of trees with a pounding, heavy footfall, stopping suddenly only a few feet away. One of the locals, Marcus thinks, as he can make out bright checked clothing even in this dimness. He wonders if he ought to be concerned. Whoever it is, he seems to be staring—or at least, he has not moved. With the faraway fire at his back, Marcus cannot make out the man's expression.

"Do you mind?" Esca calls out to the figure in British, irritably, annoyance beginning to crease his face.

But the shadowed man steps closer. "Oh, I mind very much," he replies in the same language, and there is a sneer in his words. Marcus thinks he has heard the voice somewhere before, but that makes no sense; it is not any of the men he met at the feast, and he knows no other Selgovae—

Marcus can feel Esca's body go taut, tensing, bracing for a fight, and there is a stunned sort of recognition in Esca's eyes.

"Leave," Esca snaps out. "Leave now."

The man's voice is unpleasant to hear, deep and mocking. "What, does the Brigantes dog need privacy to lie with his Roman master? I did not know animals cared who saw them."

Marcus goes hot with shame.

Esca rolls off Marcus and leaps up, quick even with the armor, and Marcus remembers the man's voice now; the first time, he did not know the words. It is the hunter they met, the one who tried to kill Marcus.

"You will not speak so," Esca says. His face has paled, and his voice is dangerously quiet. "I am no one's dog." And his right hand drops to the hilt of his dagger.

The haze of drink begins to dissipate, and Marcus struggles to push himself upright. "Esca—" he warns him, or tries to.

Esca turns his head. "Stay out of this, Marcus! This is not your affair!" he says, the words sharp like an order.

The hunter looks between the two of them and chuckles. "Or perhaps I was wrong about who was the lesser one here. Both of you in different ways, hmm?" And he laughs again.

Marcus feels as though he might be sick. What he was going to let Esca do to him— and the man saw everything— and he knows, and everyone will know—

"Would you mind telling me your name?" Esca asks, and he sounds almost polite.

The hunter blinks. "Mutorix. Son of Commios. Why do you ask?"

"Thank you, Mutorix, son of Commios." Esca gives him a grin that is all teeth. "I will need your name to tell your kin whom I have killed for this insult. I have let this pass once, when you insulted my clan and my honor and my centurion. I will not endure it another time. Or do you think Brigantes do not settle these things properly?"

Marcus can't stand up, can't intervene. He has to do something to stop this. "Esca, don't!" he cries out. "We are here for a treaty," he pleads in Latin. "You are here as a representative of Rome. Imagine how it will look, for us to say that we made peace with the Selgovae and then killed one of them."

"There are always fights at feasts," Esca says, coolly, and sketches out a scenario, sounding almost contemplative. "I was challenged to one by Mutorix here, who no doubt wanted to test my skill. I thought it would be dishonorable to refuse. But we fought, and I was very drunk, you see?" He wobbles a little in illustration, and Marcus knows Esca is nowhere near that drunk. "In the fight, my hand slipped. An accident. It was tragic." And he smiles a smile that Marcus never wants to see again. "Sad, yes, but certainly not an unknown thing. No one will think more of it."

"If you do this, I will—" Marcus starts, and he can't finish the sentence. _Discipline you_.

But Esca seems to know what he was going to say. "Unless you're going to beat me now, don't think you can stop me."

Marcus swallows and falls silent. His thoughts run around each other and tangle, confused, and he can't do anything. He can only watch.

Mutorix glares at both of them. "I will fight you honorably, Brigantes cur, but I will not fight a coward who wears armor. Let us be equal in this."

"Fine," Esca says, and glances over at Marcus. "Are you going to help me out of this?" he asks, his voice curt, as he unhooks the throat of his mail-shirt.

Marcus shakes his head for no. He may not be able to stop Esca, but he certainly will not assist him.

"Suit yourself." Esca manages to pull the mail over his head eventually, dropping it on the ground, and in a short time adds the padded tunic beneath to the pile. Then he shrugs and pulls the last tunic off as well, letting it fall atop the other two. He is bare to the waist now, wearing only boots and the tight breeches, like shortened braccae, that he had put on for riding. Then he picks up the dagger again and draws it. "Is this acceptable?"

Mutorix nods and draws a long knife of his own.

Marcus struggles to his feet, bracing himself against the tree. Even if he were coordinated enough now to come between them, restraining one would only aid the other in killing him.

And then the fight begins.

The two are quiet, circling each other, and all that can be heard is a breath here or there, the occasional footstep, as they watch each other warily, each sizing his opponent up. Mutorix is not a huge man, but he is bigger than Esca, and Marcus can tell by the beginnings of the confident smile, curling at the edges of his mouth, that he thinks his height alone will win him a victory.

Marcus waits for Esca to fight in his usual way, darting in with a quick motion and ending the fight before it has begun—there, poor Mutorix has even left his side unguarded!—but Esca makes a few desultory, slow feints, as if he is truly drunk. He is only pretending, Marcus hopes.

Mutorix lumbers in with a stab that Esca barely avoids with an ungainly backwards leap.

"Careful there," Mutorix says, laughing. "I'm sure your Roman would hate to see your blood spilt all over this ground." And he stabs again, coming even closer. "Not that that matters to me."

Esca's eyes flick over to Marcus, and Marcus can see the fear in them now. The dagger wavers in Esca's hand, and his fingers clench tightly over the hilt as if he is about to drop it.

It occurs to him that Esca's victory is not assured.

Mutorix snorts. "This is what the Romans teach their soldiers? You sold your honor so you could learn to fumble with your weapons like some untrained youth?"

"It was never for sale!" Esca snarls. "And I do not need to explain myself to the likes of you!"

As unbelievable as it seems, Mutorix seems to have the upper hand. His reach is greater, and he is faster than Esca, who barely dodges every swing.

"Is this how Brigantes fight? Always running? Stand and fight me!" Mutorix calls out.

Esca stops, and Mutorix swings a heavy blow at him that Esca does not quite avoid. It hits high, slicing across his free arm, and Marcus can see blood in the moonlight as Esca hisses in pain and surprise—

Mutorix follows the stab through, moving closer, and Marcus watches as Esca brings his injured arm up to grab the man by the front of his tunic, then to shove him, and they are falling to the ground—

Mutorix' knife tips out of his hand, sliding to a stop outside of his reach, and Esca has the man pinned on his back, dagger at his throat. Marcus watches Esca's pale chest heave as he takes one breath after another, the blood trickling sluggishly down his wounded arm. And Esca presses the dagger down—

"Stop!" Marcus cries out. "Esca, do not kill him!"

Esca looks up at him, wild-eyed. "He would have killed me, Marcus! He would have killed you too, or have you forgotten?" he rasps. "I only repay him with what he offered."

"You have shown him you are the better fighter," Marcus says, desperately, and somehow now he is at Esca's side. "You have defended your honor. Now show him clemency; is that not honorable?"

Mutorix cannot understand them, for they are speaking Latin, and Marcus watches the man's gaze go from one to the other of them. He must know they are arguing over his life.

"He is not honorable!"

"But you are," Marcus says, and puts his hand on Esca's shoulder. Even in the chill of the night, Esca's skin is slick with sweat. "I know you are. Be merciful. Let him go. Please."

Esca is quiet for a long while, then he looks up at him and there is the ghost of a smile on his face. "All right. Because you asked."

Marcus steps back, shaky with relief. They will not have jeopardized the treaty by needless deaths. No one will die. Esca is not dead.

"Go, then," Esca says abruptly in British, and he lurches up, letting Mutorix go. "Before I change my mind."

Mutorix, knowing a reprieve when he sees one, scrambles away and pulls himself to his feet, heading quickly through the trees and back to the village.

They wait for long moments until the man disappears entirely, and then Esca turns to Marcus and takes his hand. Marcus jumps at the touch and almost yanks his hand away. Esca surely cannot mean to continue—

"So," Esca says, smiling pleasantly enough, as if none of that had ever happened, "where were we?"

Marcus swallows hard as terror begins to rise around him. He is much more in possession of his faculties now, and he curses himself for what he has said. How could he have told Esca— how could he have admitted any of it? They cannot do this. He is a man, a Roman, not some filthy pervert who wants to be taken and used. He cannot want this.

He shakes and cannot speak.

Esca seems to take the trembling for acquiescence. He laughs a little and moves his hand up along Marcus' arm. "You said you'd do anything, hmm?" he whispers, and Marcus squeezes his eyes shut in abject humiliation. "I could make you kneel for me now. Hold your head down, use your mouth, then make you roll over and I'd fuck you properly. You'd beg me to. Would you like that? I think you would."

He opens his eyes to see that Esca is smiling as he says this—like he knows how disgraceful it is, like he would enjoy forcing him to do it, Marcus' terrified mind babbles. Like he knows how much Marcus wants this, in all his twisted fantasies. Esca only wants to hurt him with his secrets, of course he does. Panic seizes him and drags him down, and Marcus does pull his hand away.

"No!" he manages.

Esca recoils a little, and there is pain in his eyes. "No? I had thought—" he shakes his head a little and seems to be considering what to say. "I thought you might enjoy it too, but I suppose I guessed wrong. Well, it is no matter, there are other things we can do, eh?" He shrugs and moves closer, about to kiss him—

Marcus steps back, and he knows only the horror and shame of it. "No, Esca, please. I am no cinaedus, I— I cannot be. I cannot submit. I am a man, do you understand me?" His mouth is parched, his face hot.

"Well, of course you are a man," Esca says, confused. "And if you do not want me to fuck you, that is not a problem. You can fuck me instead," he offers. "Or neither," he continues, looking even more confused, when Marcus has said nothing. "We do not have to do that at all. Whatever you would like."

_I do want you to fuck me. That is the problem_ , Marcus thinks, miserably, and turns away. He can't look at Esca. He can't do this. They can't.

"I was drunk, and I said things I did not mean, wrong things. And I am your commander, besides. It would not be right for us to do them, and I should never have said them," Marcus forces out, and he hopes Esca cannot hear his terrified breathing. "I advise you to forget about the entire matter, and we will put it behind us."

Esca moves back, and Marcus can see that Esca's eyes are reflecting too much light, as if brimming with tears. He backs away, pulls his tunic back on, and gathers his mail-shirt in his arms.

"I see," he says, after a long while, and his voice is hoarse and harsh. "My apologies, centurion. I will do as you have ordered."

_Wait_ , Marcus wants to say. _Don't leave_. But Esca turns, and as Marcus lifts his arm and stretches out his hand Esca is already gone into the night.


	5. Chapter 5

In the morning Marcus has a dry mouth, the worst hangover he can remember ever having, and an exquisitely perfect memory of the preceding night's events.

Esca neither looks at him nor speaks to him as the party mounts up and rides off.

As Vestinus comes up behind them, Marcus nods respectfully to the tribune, wincing as his horse jolts along out of time to the pounding in his skull.

"I didn't see you after the feast," Vestinus calls out, cheerfully enough, and Marcus forces a smile.

"I may have had too much wine," Marcus says. It is the best excuse he can come up with, and he hopes it will convince the tribune; it sounds pitifully hollow to him.

Vestinus, thankfully, only looks sympathetic. "There was excellent fighting; I saw a few matches. It is a shame that you missed it."

"Oh, no," Marcus assures him. "I did see some fighting." And that, at least, is the truth, although certainly not what the man is imagining.

As Vestinus nods and rides ahead, Marcus pulls his scarf higher up around his neck, making certain to cover the bruises.

* * *

Esca does not speak to him for the rest of the day, nor the next. And with every passing moment of quiet, Marcus' heart twists more in agony, and worse, he knows he has done this to himself, to them. But they cannot do this. It is wrong, he knows, and the pain mixes with the shame and yearning together. It has not stopped him wanting Esca, and he begins to think that nothing will.

They reach the garrison at about the seventh hour, and they walk in silence to the century to find... no one. Even most of the tents are gone. There must have been some order while Marcus was absent, something so urgent that could not wait for his return. All of his worries are shoved to the side—this is no time to have his head full of anguished thoughts of love! He is a soldier, after all.

He clears his throat. "Where do you think the century has gone?"

Esca's reply is a long, cool stare, and Marcus tells himself there is no sense in pondering how the look makes him feel, how alone he is—

"I would suggest, _sir_ —" and Esca makes the title sound like an insult— "that you ask that question of the fort's tribune. I know no more than you."

He has ruined it. He has ruined everything. Marcus tries to nod impassively, as if this is a normal exchange between them, and leads the way to headquarters.

"Ah, Aquila," Suilius says, ignoring Esca. Of course he does. "You're probably wondering about your men. They're up at Trimontium."

"Trimontium?"

He is aware of Esca tensing next to him.

"Oh, one of those tribes, the Votadini—" Suilius waves a hand, as if they are all the same to him— "they are attacking, or will be. You were right." But he gives Marcus no time to enjoy this compliment, as he continues. "There is a detachment of the Sixth—part of their first cohort—already there. We will attempt to break them before they reach the fort. But at Trimontium they are under-strength, and they need more men for the battle-line."

Marcus feels his stomach drop, as he knows exactly what the man is going to say. "Sir?" he says, anyway, because perhaps he is misunderstanding the words, perhaps he means something else by it—

"Your men will be part of the first rank," Suilius says, clearly not wanting to waste any more time with him. "Go. The officers there will direct you."

Marcus salutes, even as he knows that surely this time they have been ordered to their deaths. They fight well, certainly, but they do not fight as the front-line infantry do, and there can only be a bare few days to prepare them.

"I don't suppose you have any training in this," Marcus says, quietly, once they are out of earshot of the tribune. It is not really a question. They most likely do not, but there is the slimmest chance.

Esca laughs bitterly, and that is all the answer Marcus needs.

Trimontium is a crowded mass of soldiers, noisy with chatter, messengers running through it. The Votadini will come tomorrow, the rumors say. Marcus finds his century against the back of the farthest wall. They have armor but not shields—why would they need shields, when they have never needed to form a shield-wall?—and an hour of his precious time, for it is all precious now, is spent arguing with the fort's quartermaster until some spares can be found for them.

Eventually the men are assembled in something resembling order, armed and armored, with enough space for them to practice.

Marcus looks over the men, who hold their unfamiliar shields high, whose mended armor seems barely strong enough to turn even the lightest blow. Their lives are in his hands, and he has but hours to train them, to tell them everything he can that will keep them alive. He paces the columns, stares at their faces, and tries to guess which of them will still be walking at the end of the day tomorrow.

"All right," Marcus says. There is no sense in lying to them. "I know you have little experience in this style of warfare, but we are ordered to the front ranks tomorrow. You will learn basic formations, or we will all die." That is all there is to it.

They already know how to stab a man well enough, he judges, so there is no point in reviewing anything they already know, not when there is so much they have never learned. So Marcus takes the line with the rest of them—because of course he will be there tomorrow—and calls the commands. Forward. Retreat. Circle. Square. Wedge. And above all, holding the line.

And they are horrible at it. Miserable. Worse than recruits, in some ways, for at least recruits have no bad habits to unlearn, but these men are used to fighting in a way that is the antithesis of the legions, wild and independent instead of locked in formation.

Marcus winces, looking at the men around him shuffling, too slow, around the field. They do not move as a unit. And why should they; the largest unit they ever act in is the squad. They do not cover each other with their shields, and there are appalling gaps. They leave themselves exposed. Marcus sees legs, here and there, between the shields, and pictures the men hamstrung. "New tactic," he tries. He has to make them see that this will be their death. "Four squads with me, four squads with the optio over there."

Esca jerks his head around, clearly not even expecting to be addressed. "Yes, centurion?"

"Drop your shields. Your squads, attack us. Fight as the Votadini will fight."

"Sir." And there is nothing in Esca's voice except a neutral respect. But his eyes— Marcus cannot look at his eyes.

There is some shuffling as the second group drops their gear and backs off. Marcus raises his own shield, holding the wicker sword atop it. He tries to lock shields with Carantos, next to him, but Carantos keeps wavering.

"Stand fast!" Marcus calls out, and the men raise their shields higher, but there are still holes—

Esca yells something unfamiliar and probably insulting in British and leads the attacking onslaught. Somehow, unbelievably, he leaps, getting a foothold up against Carantos' shield as if it is a hill that can be climbed, and vaults himself high over the shield-wall, ignoring the line entirely. The heavier men rush the gaps quickly, and meanwhile Marcus is not entirely surprised to find that Esca is yanking him backwards and down, shoving him to the earth and pointing a wooden sword in Marcus' face.

"You're dead," Esca says, and his voice is cold, as though he could kill him, or wants to. Or hates him. "Centurion."

Marcus swallows hard. "Can all the Votadini do that?"

"Not all of them." Esca shrugs, as if he is unconcerned to be talking about what could be his own fate. "But if the idea occurred to me, I do not think they will be far behind."

Then Inam and Carantos trip and fall over Marcus' legs, and it is clear that the attackers have won.

When they have all picked themselves up, Marcus calls out more orders. "Form the line, and we do this again. Then switch sides. And we will fight until dark. I will not hear a word of complaint."

So they do it again, and Esca shoves himself through the line to deliver what would be a killing blow if it were real, a stab down from Marcus' neck into his shoulder. This time he says nothing. He doesn't have to.

When Marcus' side drops their shields and Esca's picks up theirs, Marcus, horribly, finds he is happy to overwhelm Esca by sheer force, to push him until he loses his grip on his shield, until he turns and stumbles and falls and Marcus has his wooden sword at Esca's throat.

Esca pants up at him and forces a smirk. "Glad you've found something to do that pleases you, centurion," he spits out, and Marcus' heart turns to ice.

"I— Esca, no—" he stammers, and that is when Esca kicks his feet out from under him and, as Marcus is falling, hits him in the face with his practice sword.

By all rights it should have been a hit to stop the fight, for that is how these training bouts work—it would have been deadly—but Marcus lunges forward anyway, heedless of the rules, and pins Esca to the dirt.

Esca just goes limp under him and laughs in his ear.

"This isn't what you want from me, Marcus," he breathes, just loud enough to be heard, and they are here where anyone could see them, with all of the century surrounding them, and they cannot, they cannot, how _dare_ he act like this—

Thankfully, at that moment Crimos lands on both of them, and Marcus is spared having to reply.

After that, Marcus decides to pull both himself and Esca out of the line, and he sets the men to drill against each other at half-speed. He cannot face Esca again. Not like that.

"Higher, Sintorix," he yells, frustrated, as Gryllus scores an easy and obvious hit over the man's lowered shield, and Sintorix recoils at the sound. It is perhaps harsher than Marcus usually is to the men, but if anyone does that tomorrow to him he will die of it.

Marcus stares at them in despair. If only they were not ordered to fight like this. If only. If only. He knows in his heart that they are not good enough, nowhere near the equal of a legion, not against the Votadini, not in the numbers that the other scouts say are coming. And perhaps the gods have blessed them, so far, that the only death has been Laetinianus', but he knows they will not be that fortunate tomorrow.

The men fight until they shake from exhaustion, until it is too dark to see. And the whole time, Esca stands on the opposite side of the field, watching not them, but Marcus.

* * *

It is not as though the rest of the evening is without cares. Marcus has been a soldier for twelve years now, and he has seen fighting in his time; men take to the night before in different ways. By far the most common in the legions was a sort of lazy arrogance: they were Roman, they knew themselves to be strong and prepared for battle, and the Fates would bring what they willed. Usually there was laughing and dicing, and sometimes the company of women, if there were women about, but not of course so much indulgence as would sap one's strength. If there were no women, well, there were always fellow soldiers. If Marcus had to guess from the noise in the rest of the camp, he would suspect the legion here of fortifying themselves in the usual ways.

But the men of Marcus' century are tense, absent of the usual joking and laughing, as most make final checks of their gear. By torchlight soldiers are sharpening swords, squinting at mail-rings spread between their hands. A small group, having appointed themselves the century's artists, are efficiently taking on the task of giving all the shields the same color, so that they will not be lost in the line. From afar Marcus cannot quite discern the design—a strange pale swirl—but it is on a blue field that is distinct enough from the red of this cohort of the Sixth Victrix that they accompany. Good enough. And they are working, all working, even though surely they must be well into fatigue. They are not stupid, his Britons; they know they cannot afford to relax.

And so he walks about the camp and tries to find kind words to say to each of them, the sort of stirring speeches he remembers his commanders giving before battles. It does not hurt to encourage them, and perhaps they will fight all the harder for it.

"Do you like it, sir?" Paetinus asks as he walks past, extending a hand spattered with paint toward the row of shields. They are blue, indeed, with a long sweeping pale curve along the top. "It's not fancy, but it's the best we could do."

Marcus frowns at the design and gestures toward one of the light lines. "Those are...?"

"Wings, sir," Paetinus says, sounding proud. "We thought, well, it was like an eagle, and with your name that would be a good sign. At least we will not lose each other among the Sixth."

He makes himself smile. "It is nicely done, soldier."

Then there is no more time, as evening turns into night, as the sky clouds with what looks like impending rain, and all move into their tents, or at least the tents they have, for it seems that they did not bring enough for everyone when they left the camp. Though Marcus has a tent to himself, it is not the grand tent to which he had become accustomed. But it is his, and it will do. He pushes his gear under one patched and torn leather side, and busies himself spreading out his cloak and a blanket onto the ground, with a crumpled-up tunic for a pillow. It will serve.

As he nears the end of this task, a distorted shadow behind him falls across his bed, accompanied by the noise of someone dropping equipment next to his.

Marcus turns and finds— Esca.

Esca regards him, his face expressionless, as he puts a mail-shirt onto the pile.

"There's no room in the other tents," Esca says, quietly. "I will sleep outside, of course, but if it is to rain I would rather not have my gear soaked through by morning, sir. I trust you understand."

And Esca stands there, perfectly still, like a statue of a soldier rather than a living man, asking for nothing more. Not even as a friend would ask. To look at him now no one would know they were, or had ever been, anything more to each other than commander and subordinate, and Marcus swallows against the sudden painful lump in his throat.

"Don't be an idiot," Marcus snaps back at him, harsher than he intended, but hoping that this, something, anything, will get a reaction from Esca. "There's more than enough room in here to have you under hides for the night."

Esca's nostrils flare, but he does not respond to the slight. He only picks up his clothing and then drops it, kicking it into the far end of the tent, as far away from Marcus' makeshift pallet as he can get. But the only place his blanket can fit is next to Marcus', so the defiance does him no good in the face of reality. But he has made his views quite plain.

Esca sits down on his blankets when he is done arranging them, and looks up at Marcus. "Tell me something, centurion." His voice is dry and flat.

Marcus sits as well, on his own blanket, and he is next to Esca in the dark. "Yes?"

"Your opinion on tomorrow, as an officer with experience in these matters. Whether we might prove victorious."

What can he tell Esca? Not his true thoughts on the subject, he thinks bleakly. "I cannot claim to know fate, of course, and the men showed great promise—"

Esca glares at him and does not even let him finish speaking. "Say it. It will be easier than lies." And Marcus is grateful that the man will show feelings toward him still, but he wishes it were not about this. "Are we good enough?"

"No." Marcus shakes his head and feels the hope drain from him as he finally admits it aloud. "Not nearly. I am sorry."

The only noise from Esca is a sharp inhalation, and then he falls silent for a long while. "So that is how it is. Thank you for the truth, at least."

They could die tomorrow. Saying the words has made them that much more real to Marcus. And of course he has fought before, has faced death before, but never has he felt such a pervasive sense of... regret, on the eve of a battle. This is something new. Perhaps it is because he was always alone before. It is different now, now that he has met Esca, and the thought that Esca might die fills him with dread, even if Esca will never speak a kind word to him again. He wonders if this is why it is prohibited to be involved with one's subordinates, and as he does he also knows it is too late: even if they never touch again, even if Esca hates him, Marcus will feel this way about him. His judgment is already compromised.

He wishes— oh, if he were braver, he could do this, he could offer himself to Esca in the hope that they might not be alone. But he cannot do what he truly wants. And he had always looked down on the not-men who would submit to a man, but only now does he see that there is a strength in it too, to be able to do what one wants in defiance of all the voices shouting that it is wrong. He is not that man. Not even for Esca.

But he is lonely, terribly lonely, and perhaps they do not have to do any of that. Perhaps if he asks Esca will just be here, be with him, and that would be enough.

Marcus holds out a shaking hand. "Esca?"

Esca must see something of his thoughts in his face, because he turns away and shuts his eyes. "Don't," he says, and his voice comes out of him in a pained groan.

"Don't what?"

"This." Esca lifts his head and stares at him, and the pain in his voice is now evident in his eyes as well. "I can't— I can't handle this from you, Marcus. Not now. You're terrified."

Marcus isn't sure what to say. "I'm not afraid of you."

Esca meets his gaze evenly. "Not of me. Of yourself. You ordered me away, and I will not come running back only to be sent away again when you decide yet another time that you cannot bear to be with me. I refuse."

"Oh." Well, that answers that question. Esca has said no, and that is the end of it. 

"Besides—" Esca half-smiles, and somehow it is still a look of agony— "this is not how I would want to remember you, later, if it is needful. I would not want to spend my last night, or yours, doing anything anyone might regret come morning."

_What if I will regret not doing it?_ Marcus wants to ask this, but the words die unsaid, choked on his tongue, shut behind his lips. He cannot.

And with that Esca settles down onto his blankets, curling up and facing the other way.

Marcus lies down as well, to try to get some rest, and he cannot help holding out his hand, even in the darkness. He is not sure if it should mean anything that Esca, deep in sleep, turns and reaches out for his hand, then clutches it to him. But this makes the tension in Marcus' chest unknot bit by bit, and he tries to hold on to the feeling of it, to engrave it in his memory, if this is all he will have.

* * *

The morning is cold and gray, and when Marcus awakens at dawn it is just starting to rain. The ground has not turned to mud yet, but it will soon enough. Next to him, Esca rolls onto his back, opens his eyes, and says absolutely nothing.

After he has been to the latrines and then picked listlessly at the morning's bread, he comes back to the tent to find that Esca is quicker than he and is already mostly armored, sliding the mail-shirt down over his head. It shouldn't be graceful, shouldn't be beautiful to watch—after all, he is only putting on armor—but it is, somehow. Marcus finds his mouth has gone dry, watching.

Esca settles his belts at his hips and looks up. He gives Marcus a pale half-smile, and already Marcus feels as though his heart has skipped a beat. He is pathetic, now, the way he must look to Esca.

"I will help you with your armor," Esca says, and the way he says it, it is not a question. He lifts his head high as he picks up Marcus' gear, as if he is proud even though this is a task that slaves do. Maybe it is not for slaves among his people, in the same way serving at the feast was not. "Lift your arms up."

And as Marcus obeys instantly, he tries not to shiver as Esca's hands touch him. Esca is only adjusting padding, only pulling mail over him, only preparing him for battle. It means nothing.

Then Esca steps back and puts his hand to Marcus' face, his palm curving against Marcus' cheek and jaw. That is no accident. He is warm and real and solid and every feeling that Marcus should not have, should never indulge in, comes flooding back to him. He cannot quite choke off the noise he makes at the touch; the only sound in the tent is his strangled, surprised gasp.

"I don't hate you, Marcus." Esca's voice is low and intense, full of some emotion Marcus does not dare name. "Far from it. If you will fight better for knowing that, then know it is the truth. And if—" he hesitates over the words— "if it goes ill today, for either of us, I wanted you to know—"

"Centurion Aquila!" 

Someone calls for him outside the tent, the moment is broken, and Esca jumps away from as if struck. Marcus shuts his eyes and mutters a few obscene imprecations.

When he opens his eyes again Esca's mouth is firmed, his face unreadable, as if he was not about to say— whatever he was going to admit.

"I have to go," Marcus says, hating that he has to say it.

Esca nods tightly. "Go on, then."

It is Vestinus, who wants to pass on the plans for the battle-line, for the defense. Marcus nods and commits it all to memory. There is not much to know. They hold the line. This is what he tells the men, who assemble, armed and armored in front of him, with the dull daylight hardly even gleaming off their helms.

In what seems like hardly any time at all, they are outside the fort walls. The rain pours down in earnest, and from afar Marcus watches as the Sixth's standard-bearer clings valiantly to his staff, as the wet fabric billows in the wind. The horses of the cavalry wing stamp nervously on the ends of the line; they will move fast and circle around the Votadini, whom they can only hope are not mounted. And Marcus' century will be in the thick of things, next to men of the Sixth themselves, bearing the brunt of the attack.

The war-trumpets sound, and Marcus hefts the still-strange weight of his shield, as all down the line the men do the same. On one side of him is tall Carantos, and on the other side, of course, stands Esca. Esca holds his shield high enough to match Marcus', and shifts left until the edges fit. Marcus flicks his eyes sideways to see Esca's jaw set hard and determined, under the edges of the helm he so despises wearing, its crest as visible as Marcus'. Esca holds his sword out to the right of his shield, ready for the attack that is to come.

Marcus readjusts his sweat- and rain-slick grip and stares forward into the mists of the day. He can almost see movement. He thinks he can.

"Stand fast!" he cries out, and in the distance, very near now, there is an answering shout, a thousand frenzied voices—

And then the Votadini are upon them.

The world is turned upside-down. They do not fight as Romans fight. There is nothing orderly or regimented about it. They are wild and screaming and raving, and they fling themselves against the shield-wall as if they know no fear.

Marcus braces his legs in the mud and stabs, fast and hard, around his shield, into the first attacker, and the next, and he can hardly see them through the rain and the wind, but still he presses on. They are not armored, but as one man falls with a quick thrust between the ribs the next leaps on top of him to take his place and, oh, they are mad, and there are so many of them—

The line bends, suddenly, and breaks, as a few men farther down fall. Marcus spares a glance at his men, and he sees Inam sprawl backwards and Crimos land hard, unmoving. Then Sintorix, just the other side of Esca, staggers and twists, his head thrown back at an unnaturally hard angle and there is blood everywhere—

They are losing the line already, so soon. They are losing men, and the Votadini push forward, in inexhaustible ways, and still the men are trying, valiantly, to fight in the manner of Romans, as Marcus tried to teach them. They are too slow, and clumsy with the shields, and none of it is working, and more will die.

Then he has an idea, and he curses himself that he did not think of it sooner.

"Do not fight as the legion fights!" Marcus yells, and hopes someone hears him. "Fight as you are accustomed to! Be quick! Throw your shields down if you must!" They are armored, after all, and perhaps that will be enough to protect them.

Esca lifts his head in a feral grin, and then bashes the next Votadini man in the face with his shield. "You heard the centurion!" he cries out. "Pass the word! Leave the formation and take them!"

Marcus keeps his shield, but watches as most of the men discard theirs. And though there are still Votadini, the century is doing a better job pushing them back. He smiles, and then his grin disappears in horror as he sees the Sixth.

The Sixth is... broken. There is no other word for it. Soldiers lie there—whether dead or dying, or only wounded, he cannot say, but they do not present any sort of defense—and the ground is slick with their blood. A few of them stagger, determined, but the onslaught of Votadini has overwhelmed them, and as Marcus watches, their standard-bearers are surrounded, pulled apart from each other. A band of soldiers still defend the signifer and the imaginifer, but the aquilifer is separated, and Marcus can see a group of burly Votadini heading for him. Metal flashes, and he can see the gilt Eagle waver and begin to come down, and one of the Votadini has it in his hands, and no one is there to get it back—

Esca, spattered with blood, turns and follows his gaze, and Marcus watches Esca's face set itself in sudden determination as his throat works once.

"Oh, no," Esca says, and the words come out in a miserable exhalation that turns, quite quickly, to iron. "Oh, they will not have it, I will not let them—"

And he throws his shield away and sprints for it. Eyes fixed on the Eagle, Esca runs, dodging a Votadini man, leaping over the wounded, racing toward the heart of the conflict just as the Sixth's aquilifer disappears under a mass of bodies—

He doesn't realize he's holding out his hand until Esca is gone. "Esca!" he screams, into the roar of battle. "Esca, come back!"

_The Eagle is nothing_ , he wants to say. _It is only metal, it is not your life_. But it is too late. And knowing that should shock him, for no soldier thinks such a thing, but he cannot think about that now, for there is no time to think about anything about the enemy, and the next one, and the one after that—

Carantos and Paetinus, back to back, are fending off the Votadini, each fighting in perfect concord, and Marcus steps up near them and takes his own turn, but he cannot stop worrying about Esca, and a thin man with scars down his face opens his arm for him in his distraction. Marcus hisses with pain and stabs the man in the thigh, and as he does he sees the familiar mop of Esca's hair—of course he has thrown his helm off too, the idiot—surging up by the Eagle, his hands on the pole—

—and a sword-hand flashes out, and Esca's neck tilts back ( _not broken, not broken, it can't be broken_ )—

—and then Marcus cannot see him any longer, and the Eagle is down too, and the Votadini are moving, away into the woods, and there are fewer of them—

"They're retreating!" someone yells, and a ragged cheer breaks out.

"They're not retreating, you fools!" another voice calls, and Marcus can finally see Esca. Still alive. Unharmed. Marcus is running, running, almost to him now. "They have the Eagle!"

And no one of the Sixth moves, no one follows them, for they are all too wounded in the Sixth and cannot spare even one man—

Esca pulls himself to his feet, grinning a horrible, macabre grin. His face is streaked with blood. _I can do this_ , Marcus sees him whisper, though he does not hear the words. _Trust me, Marcus. I know these woods_.

Then he is running again, into the forest, and Marcus feels as though his heart has gone with him.

The Votadini have the Eagle, and if Esca is not careful, they will have him too.

"I'm going after him," Marcus says, to anyone who hears him. He does not need to think about it, and he throws his shield down, casts aside his helm, and runs in Esca's footsteps.

* * *

Once Marcus is in the forest, the thick branches shelter him from the light and rain both. It is good in that way, but as he slogs across the wet ground, it means he is hopelessly turned around already. Esca's tracks, thankfully, are easy to follow, breaking every rule he taught Marcus. Esca has been running in haste—here are broken branches, there a snagged piece of clothing, and Marcus can practically see his footprints.

And if he can track Esca, so can the Votadini. They will know they are being followed.

Marcus curses as he stumbles down a bank, the sodden ground collapsing under him, as he tumbles into the stream. He fights to hold his position in the water, but he is exhausted already from the battle, and his legs can barely hold him as he is swept down the current, taking mouthfuls of water in as his head sinks beneath the surface.

He does not drown—the gods are that merciful, at least—and the current carries him to a huge rock, slippery with moss. He crawls atop it, panting. He is alive, but who knows how far downstream he is?

He has lost the track now, and Esca with it. And the Eagle, but that hardly seems to matter now.

Marcus shuts his eyes in despair.

And then, from afar, he hears voices, pitched in anger. The Votadini. It has to be. 

He feels himself smile as the tiniest bit of hope lightens his cares, and he slowly, slowly, he eases himself off the rock and through the water, in the direction of the voices.

It is agonizing going, this crawling across the ground, once he is on the bank, but he does not want to give himself away. And it is worth it to be so quiet, because, when he finally sees them through the trees, there are three of them, more than he can take at once. There are two big men, covered in mud and blood and the blue of tattoos, but he cannot see the third, whose back is to one of the trees.

And—a scrap of daylight reveals the truth—they have the Sixth's Eagle, glinting gold.

One of the men laughs. "Hey," he says, in British almost too distorted for Marcus to understand, "you think our northern friends will like this prize of Rome?"

"I hear the Eagle is one of their gods," the other says, laughing back. "So perhaps the Romans will fight all the worse knowing the Caledonii have it."

So they are working with the Caledonii. Esca was right all along. If only Esca were here to hear them say it, but he clearly has not found them yet, though how he could have missed their voices, Marcus has no idea.

Then the third man groans inarticulately in pain, as if he is unconscious and only now just coming around. And Marcus recognizes the voice. His stomach twists, and a horrible, awful feeling rises up in him. Esca did find them after all. But they found Esca first.

The first man's eyes narrow. "What should we do about him, eh? Think they'll want him too?"

"He was with their Eagle when I took it." The other man shrugs. "And he was the first after it, as you can see. Maybe, if it's a god, he's one of their priests, eh? Bad fortune to kill a priest. I'm not bringing any god down on me."

"We could ask him."

As Marcus moves nearer to them, crawling on his belly, he can see Esca better now. Esca's eyes have fallen shut, and he looks barely conscious. Marcus is not certain if he is awake. A bruise is beginning to shade purple on Esca's temple, but he doesn't look gravely injured. Yet. They've propped him with his back against a tree, and his hands are bound together at the wrists with what looks like a rein taken from one of the cavalry.

He watches the men close on Esca, and the first lifts Esca's head up roughly, by his hair. Marcus holds his breath and hopes Esca was conscious enough to hear them talking, to answer the right thing. If he claims to be a priest, something, anything, he can save himself.

"Hey! You! Roman!"

Esca opens his eyes, and Marcus watches as Esca tilts his head and struggles to focus—

And then he spits blood in the man's face and curses at him in perfect, fluent British.

Esca has just condemned himself to death, Marcus thinks bleakly, and it is all the worse because he did not even know he could save himself. Marcus cannot just sit here and watch this happen. He cannot watch Esca die. He will do anything to save him. But he cannot overpower two men, and at best if he gets one the second will kill Esca—

He has been so stupid, to let his own fears keep him from Esca. It is all so meaningless now. There was nothing to be afraid of then, but this, this he should fear. And if only he could have him back, he would tell him so—

"What's this?" The second man sounds honestly confused. "Not a Roman?"

Esca lifts his chin proudly. "I am Brigantes."

"Oh, really?" He laughs, and the sound is horribly cruel. "One of those southern whores, eh? You roll over and serve Rome? Do you enjoy disgracing your people?"

"You know nothing of my people!" Esca retorts, ever defiant.

The first man, the one with his hand in Esca's hair, slams Esca's head back hard against the tree. "Be quiet, Brigantes."

"Well," the other one says, lifting his shoulders as if it means nothing to him, "He's no good to either of us, if he isn't a Roman. Just some stupid Brigantes. Do you want to slit his throat?"

The first man smiles at Esca, a terrifying, predatory grin. "How about that, Brigantes? You like Rome enough to die for it? You're going to."

The second man, his back to Marcus, is staring at both of them, and this is his chance—

Marcus pushes forward, silently, and then rises and holds his—Esca's—dagger to the man's neck.

"If you think of harming him," Marcus calls out, in Latin, "I will kill you. Or maybe I'll kill you anyway."

The first man looks up in shock, his grip on Esca slackening—

And Esca's eyes widen fractionally in recognition, and then he slams his bound hands into his captor's face just as Marcus presses the knife deeper, cutting the man's throat and then shoving him aside to get to the other man, the one Esca is tangling with.

He is ready to help, but he does not have to—the man's face is a smashed, unrecognizable mess from Esca's fists alone. The man didn't even have time to reach for a knife. Good.

"Here," Marcus says, holding out the bloody dagger. His hands are shaking. Why are his hands shaking? "Esca, your wrists, let me—"

Esca balances in an awkward crouch and lifts his arms toward Marcus. "Careful," he warns, and Marcus can see that Esca's hands are already abraded as he gingerly works the dagger between them. He must have been fighting his bonds.

The leather falls away and Esca stands, wincing. "They had the Eagle," he adds, in a completely normal, matter-of-fact tone, gesturing to where it lies on the ground. As if this sort of thing happens every day. As if somehow Marcus had missed it. As if it is the most important thing. It is supposed to be. It isn't, anymore. "And I told you I wouldn't let it fall."

"They had _you_ ," Marcus says, and his voice goes ragged on the last word.

In Esca's eyes is a strange look, bright hope mingled with surprise. "Marcus?"

And that is when Marcus grabs Esca by the shoulders, pulls him close, and kisses him.

Esca makes a small startled noise and for an instant is perfectly motionless, but then his arms come up and he is embracing Marcus hard enough to hurt, as if he fears using any less strength will mean they are torn apart. His mouth opens against Marcus', and he tastes awful, the metallic tang of blood, and Marcus doesn't care because he has Esca and he is never, ever going to let him go.

The cold rain comes down on them both as Esca kisses him frantically, over and over, wild and demanding, and it is wonderful—

"I was a fool," Marcus rasps, between kisses. His heart is pounding fast in his chest, resounding in his ears, beating all through his body, as though he is still in battle. "Esca, I have been wrong, I have been afraid—"

"Shut up, Marcus," Esca breathes, and pulls his head down to kiss him again.

Esca holds him tight and kisses him and kisses him and Marcus just lets him and he wants to cry with joy, for it is so right to have Esca here, and he is not afraid, not any longer, because if Esca wants this, if they both want this, it cannot be wrong. Esca moans into his mouth and the sound runs all through Marcus and he is suddenly, achingly aroused—

And Esca pulls away, breathing hard. "No," he says, quietly, but he is still smiling.

"No?" Marcus echoes, and he can feel himself beginning to tip and slide into sadness.

"I mean, yes, of course," Esca says, instantly, a hint of guilt in his eyes. "But not like this. Look around."

Marcus tries to think about something that is not Esca, but finds the rest of the world much less interesting. "Hmm?"

"We're in the middle of a wood surrounded by corpses and an Eagle that needs to be returned."

"Right." Marcus still feels a bit dumbfounded, dazed, from the battle and... everything else. He is sure it will pass soon.

Esca runs his fingertips along Marcus' neck, past the edge of the mail and scarf, into his hair. "And we're both alive." He smiles. "And we'll be alive tomorrow, and you can breathe, and consider—" 

He breaks off, looking more than a little unsure. Of course he is worried.

"I mean it," Marcus assures him. "I've considered it. Trust me."

Esca's grin is tentative, but it comes all the same. 

"Besides—" Esca gives him a smile now that is full of promise— "you deserve better than some quick tumble after battle, Marcus. I have plans for you. Nice, slow, lingering plans. You'll enjoy it."

Even as desire rushes into him, to hear Esca say that he wants him, that he has wanted him for so long as to plan this, he can't help feeling a little annoyed. He doesn't need to be treated like some virgin on her wedding night, feted with song and celebration. He has experience, after all. "It's not as though I'm a maiden!" he complains. "You certainly don't have to—"

"—love you?" Esca counters, angrily, and then his mouth snaps shut as he realizes what he's said.

Oh.

He gapes at Esca and all his words desert him. He is not the only one here who has been thinking of more than lust, it seems. If he were braver, if he could simply speak his mind, he would tell Esca so many things; he would tell him he loves him in return. But he cannot. The words are unsaid.

In contrast, Esca is free with his feelings, almost even proud of them, as if, having committed to saying it, he must say everything, and he picks himself up and rushes on through the rest of the sentence. "I don't know who you've been with before, Marcus, but if not even one of them has ever taken the time to be at all caring with you, that is a great shame."

"I—" Marcus still struggles to say something. "It gladdens me that you would, for I care for you as well."

Esca's face softens, gentles, as if he knows that was difficult enough for Marcus to say. "Then it will be good."

Marcus raises an eyebrow. "That confident, are you?"

Esca stares back, his lips firmed as though he is trying to smile, and then he gives in and bursts out laughing. "Oh, I deserved that." He steps back and turns toward the spoils of the Votadini, the standard they have come to retrieve. "Come, Aquila, your Eagle."

Marcus sighs at the pun. "Tell me, do I invent jests about your name?"

"I've heard them all already," Esca says, in the tone of the long-despairing, as he gathers up the Eagle and passes it back to Marcus. For all that it carries the weight of Rome, it is surprisingly light in his hands. "Here you go."

And as they walk back to Trimontium, side by side, Esca's hand brushing his arm every few steps, Marcus knows he has found something even better than the Eagle.

* * *

The situation at Trimontium is not nearly as bad as he feared, though it is easy for Marcus to acknowledge that it could be better. There are more wounded than dead—the Sixth has not been ruined entirely—but the margin was narrower than he would like any victory to be. At least it is a victory; they did, after all, keep the Eagle and repel the Votadini.

He pushes the Eagle into Vestinus' shocked hands. 

"I believe this is yours, tribune."

Vestinus nearly drops the Eagle, staring at it in astonishment. Marcus has saved the man's career for certain; who could know better than he the shame of having lost a legion's standards?

"I—" Vestinus splutters. "Thank you, centurion. I feared it lost forever, when those barbarians disappeared into the forest with it. However did you find it?"

Marcus can't stop smiling. "My optio did," he says, and nudges Esca forward. "And then I found him."

"The centurion gives me too much credit," Esca puts in, sounding awkward to be the object of such scrutiny. "He means to say that he found the Votadini with the Eagle, who had captured me when I found them, and liberated both me and it."

"I will commend both of you to the legate, again, with the highest praise," Vestinus says, thoroughly ignoring Esca's attempt at modesty. He is still staring at the Eagle as though he is worried he is imagining it. "Thank you. This will give the men some hope, when the barbarians come back."

Marcus blinks. "They're coming back?"

The tribune looks up at him, his face suddenly stern, rigid and graven with worry he is trying to suppress. "The rest of them and another tribe, the scouts say. I have forgotten the name—"

"The Caledonii," Esca says, miserably.

Vestinus does not even ask how Esca might know such a thing. "Yes. But they are a good few days away, if the gods will have blessed us, and we are sending for reinforcements—"

From the look on his face, they will not arrive in time. Marcus knows this.

He swallows hard. Have they come this far to die now? Do the gods hate him so much that his time to die should be now, just when he has found Esca? It is not fair. He has been pious, he has given the gods their sacrifices, and he has done nothing to merit this.

"It is all right, centurion," Vestinus says, trying to seem kindly. "Go on, see to your men. We're running out of space here, from all the wounded, so we might have to shift you back to your marching-camp tomorrow, but we can keep you for at least the rest of the day."

So Marcus goes, and he discovers there is rather a lot to be seen to. The dead are dead, but he would be a poor commander if he did not visit the wounded. He tells Esca he is free to leave, but Esca does not move.

"They have given oath to me too," Esca replies. "I owe this to them."

They walk through the makeshift infirmary together; the wounded are all over the ground.

Igennus grimaces at him, white-faced, blood already soaking through the bandages around his midsection, and Marcus knows he will not survive. A gut wound, though—Marcus winces to see it—means he could linger for days. No soldier should die like that.

"Centurion," Igennus gasps out. "Were we victors?"

Marcus nods, numbly. "We were." He cannot bring himself to say more; let the man die thinking that they have driven the Votadini off permanently. He deserves this kindness.

And Igennus smiles, sagging back onto the pallet. "That is good." The smile is strained, tight with pain. "Esca, you were right when you said my poor guarding would be the death of me."

Esca kneels down next to Igennus. "I am sorry."

"Don't be." Igennus' eyes fall shut; he hardly has the strength to keep them open. "Only— help me?"

And he fumbles for a knife at his side. Marcus realizes what Igennus has asked for, and wants to turn away, but he cannot. He watches as Esca helps the man position the point at his heart, wrap his hands around the hilt.

Igennus whispers something Marcus cannot hear, and after that it is all over very quickly. Esca takes his last breath for him, as if he is family. Marcus did not know the Britons did that as well, but perhaps Igennus was Roman enough to have wanted it. Esca stands up, his face still and sad.

"He was brave," Esca says, quietly.

"They all were."

There is a great pyre in the evening for all the dead, and Marcus stands there in the cold until it burns to embers and ashes. The wind whips through his chilled clothing, still wet from having all the blood scrubbed out of it.

There are so many dead. It is always thus. But he is alive, and Esca is alive. It could have been worse.

That night Esca is in his tent, but so are five or six others, men from Trimontium he does not know, for they are out of space here. Marcus is not so incautious as to think he could get away with anything in a crowded tent—and he is not sure these strangers would pretend not to hear—but the day has been long and rough, besides, and he is content merely to be near Esca.

The crowding gives them an excuse to be close, at least. Esca throws blankets over both of them, and Marcus tucks his head into Esca's neck. It does not take all of Marcus' cares away, for nothing is so magic, but it heartens him nonetheless. Esca murmurs something unintelligible and pleased-sounding against Marcus' hair, and it is the best Marcus has slept in months.

In the morning, Marcus goes back to Suilius' camp with perhaps fifty men, those of the century who can still walk. He does not even need to instruct them as they get back, for they set to repairing their gear immediately. They have heard the news; they know the Caledonii and Votadini are coming soon.

And the news is not good, none of it. There are reports waiting for him already. Apparently no one thought to find him at Trimontium, but there is a note from Eonus about some third tribe moving in the area, not the Selgovae either, and Marcus winces. They do not need another foe to contend with.

He is in his tent, not even out of his armor, distracted already by the reports, when someone steps in, and he looks up to see Esca, smiling. Esca has at least found clean clothing from somewhere; he is back in his usual short tunic and braccae, his weapons hanging at his side.

"Esca!" he calls out, grinning back. "What can I do for you?"

"Permission to leave the garrison for an hour or so," Esca says, briskly, and Marcus puts his more lascivious thoughts out of his mind. "There are the effects of a few of the dead to put in their place. It is a matter of my people."

There will not be a battle today, and at any rate Esca can take care of himself. Marcus had wondered that they had not burnt everything on the pyre, but he is not sure if it would be an offense to ask what Esca plans to do.

"Very well," he says. It is an easy enough thing to approve. "Granted, but be back before nightfall."

Esca nods. "I will not go far. Only to that stream a mile south, I think."

But Esca does not leave, and still he stands there, shifting as though he wants to ask something else. Marcus waits, but Esca says nothing, biting his lip in hesitation.

"Was there anything else you wanted from me?" Marcus finally ventures.

And at that Esca smiles broadly, and his voice is almost a purr. "Oh, Marcus. So many things."

Marcus barely has time to take a breath before Esca steps close, grabs him by the front of his scarf, and kisses him. It is slow, more leisurely than any of the other kisses, as if Esca does not care that they are in the middle of his tent, in the middle of the camp, in the middle of the day, where anyone could happen by. Shortly thereafter, Marcus does not care either, as Esca's hands run through his hair and Esca pulls him even closer, a quick urgent motion, and Marcus has to touch him, he has to, and why is Esca wearing so much clothing? His hands make fists in the fabric of Esca's tunic and he pulls up at the rough cloth until his palm is against Esca's warm back, and Esca moans into his mouth—

Someone very close by coughs discreetly.

Marcus jumps back, guiltily, knowing as he does that it is very obvious what they have been up to. He is breathing heavily, and next to him Esca wipes at his own mouth and does not look at all ashamed.

"Sir," Paetinus says to him—and thank the gods, it is only Paetinus—looking as though he is trying not to smile, "a messenger says the tribune wants you at headquarters at your earliest convenience."

Marcus stares at Paetinus without really seeing him and it takes far too long for the words to make sense. "Thank you," he manages, finally. "I'll go see him now." For of course _earliest convenience_ undoubtedly means _this very moment_.

Esca, clearly uncaring of such niceties as propriety or, more importantly, the fact that they are not alone in the tent, licks his lips and looks Marcus up and down in a way that suggests he would much rather have Marcus out of uniform now instead. Marcus shudders and tries to fight the wave of arousal.

"Go on," Esca says, under his breath, and then he grins, unrepentant, clearly enjoying putting Marcus through this agony. "Come find me after, eh?" He runs a finger along the inside of Marcus' wrist, and Marcus shivers again as he steps reluctantly away.

Marcus stands straighter, runs his hands over his hair to flatten it, and he hopes he looks as though he hasn't just been kissing his optio by the time he steps out. He is not sure he is successful.

"Congratulations," he can hear Paetinus saying behind him, to Esca. "So...?"

Esca is chuckling. "No, tell your lover he doesn't win the bet, you greedy, greedy man." 

"Oh, Esca," comes Paetinus' pleading reply, "we only care about your happiness!"

"That, and your money-purses. Why not just dice, if you want to wager? I can't believe the rest of you are so crass as to speculate—"

That is the last Marcus hears before the tent flap falls shut. He decides he would really be happier not knowing.

And so he smiles all the way to headquarters.

Suilius doesn't even scowl at him as he walks in.

"Sir," Marcus says, saluting. "Reporting as ordered."

The tribune's face is strange, and it is several long moments before the realization dawns on Marcus that the man is actually smiling.

"I heard from Gaius Vestinus of the Sixth Victrix that you fought well, and saved the Eagle."

Marcus tilts his head in acknowledgment. "Sir, I am honored."

"I had worried, Aquila," the tribune continues, "that you would be... less fortunate." Like his father. Suilius does not even have to say it. "But I am glad to be proved wrong. Truly you have done well for yourself and your family."

These are words Marcus has longed to hear for so many years. In those awful days after the news of the Ninth's disappearance had reached him and his mother, he envisioned, over and over again, joining the army to redeem his family's tarnished honor. He would stand proud as his commander praised him. But he had never thought the words would be a reluctant sop given him by his begrudging tribune, and they do not warm him as much as he thought they would.

He has his own honor now, and the whole of his worth is not his father's name. He is a man no matter what anyone will say about him, and he will be a man still if he walks out of here and kneels for Esca. He tests the thought in his head, and he thinks he likes it, but still there is a pang of worry.

And even if they are reluctant words, it does not mean he does not like to hear the compliments. He smiles. "Thank you, sir."

"And once we drive off those barbarians—" Suilius is, Marcus notes, awfully optimistic about the Caledonii— "perhaps we shall see if something better can be arranged for you, eh?"

Marcus nods without thinking, his mind having drifted off into half-formed thoughts of the better things he could be doing, with however much time remains to him. "Yes, sir."

"That is all."

Marcus salutes again and leaves, in a daze as he walks back toward his century, ready to find— someone who isn't there.

"Have you seen Esca?" he asks of the nearest man, who turns out to be Carantos.

Carantos shakes his head and is grinning broadly; Paetinus must have been talking. The conspiratorial sort of wink Carantos gives him hardly bothers him at all, when months ago he would have been scandalized to be thought in the company of a cinaedus. Of course, then he never would have thought cinaedi could be men like Carantos, men of virtue and honor. He was wrong about so many things. He is not wrong now.

"Not since you left. He said he was leaving the garrison for a little. Said you would know where to find him, if you wanted."

Oh, he wants. And now, finally, he will do something about it.

* * *

Esca left an easy trail for him to follow, and Marcus finds him in a clearing next to the stream to the south. His cloak is spread over the still-damp ground. He is sitting on it, leaning against his satchel, but he rises to his feet when he sees Marcus.

Esca is smiling—he smiles often, now—but the way he holds himself as he steps forward is closed-in, a little awkward, and Marcus realizes Esca is nervous too. Knowing that heartens him. He is not alone in this.

"You came." Esca's voice is bright with pleasure, but still tentative, as if he had worried that Marcus might not.

"Of course." Marcus makes his words confident for Esca's sake. "Neither of us will be missed for an hour or two."

Esca's grin is knowing. "I suppose you have ideas about how to occupy the time."

"If I am not mistaken—" and he is not, and he never thought he would be admitting to this, wanting to do this, but here he is, sober and in daylight— "they are ideas you might share. I believe you wanted to— I wanted— for you to—" and he can't say it, suddenly, he can't, and his face is hot in shame.

Esca moves closer, and his hand is warm, wrapped around Marcus' fingers. "Ah, Marcus," he murmurs, and he smiles, soft and infinitely gentle. Marcus thinks the kindness will break his heart. "Only what you want. They are fine things, nothing to fear, and I would be honored if you wished to do this for me. With me."

Honored? His first, reflexive thought is that there is no honor in this, but then he sees the look in Esca's eyes and realizes he was wrong. It is the same look Esca bore when they were with the Selgovae, when he asked what Marcus would do. He would trust Esca enough to give himself up to him, as he trusts him in battle. Of course that is honor. It is not Roman honor, but it is honor all the same. And Marcus smiles. But it is still hard to say.

"We need not, though," Esca continues. "I will not lie and say the idea is not... compelling—" the word comes out low, full of promise— "but it is not the only way. If you would be with me, Marcus, I would be happy to do anything—"

"Yes."

Esca stops on an indrawn breath and watches, his eyes wide.

"Yes, please," Marcus repeats. "I want you to. Touch me. Hold me down. Make me." And then the words flow out of him, as if he is drunk again, but now it is only his own happiness, and he feels free saying them, with each word bringing him closer to himself. "Yours, Esca, I am yours, I submit, anything you desire. Please."

And Esca reaches out, his hand shaking a little. He extends one finger and brushes, ever so lightly, the length of Marcus' throat, up to the scar on his chin. Marcus tilts his head back and lets him. Esca could do anything he wanted to him, and the knowledge of that is twisted and tangled together with the arousal and a glowing contentment. This is Esca. Esca will not hurt him. He knows that in his bones.

Then Esca steps back.

"Kneel for me." Esca's command is barely more than a whisper, but it has the all the force of the most serious of orders.

If Esca's words had been merely _kneel_ he might have balked, might have panicked at a thing that sounded too much like punishment. But Esca smiles as he says it, and the tone is not rough or harsh, but caring. Esca wants this too— _for me_ , he said—as he does, and it pleases him. It pleases both of them.

Esca does not have to push or press him. At the words alone, Marcus drops to his knees willingly, feeling the rough wool of the cloak against his bare legs. It is dizzying, and he wonders for an instant just what he has done, what he has committed himself to.

He lifts his eyes to see that Esca has moved close. Esca's braccae are thin and tight, and it is easy enough to see that he is hard and growing harder, and they have barely touched. An answering burn of lust runs all through Marcus in response, even as thoughts tumble quickly through his mind. His head is on a level now for Esca to demand his mouth, and what if he wants that— what if he wants— what if Marcus himself wants— and if Esca made him do it, then it would be all right to want it, because it would not be him who had to say it—

But Esca instead cradles Marcus' head against his bony hip as if he is completely oblivious to his own arousal. Whatever this is between them, it is not only about fucking. Marcus has never done this before, not like this. It never mattered like this. Esca's fingertips run through his hair, down his face, behind his ear, and Marcus feels... safe. Safe, and loved, and warm from the pride of having done a thing rightly all at once, and he has never felt like this either.

"Oh, Marcus," Esca breathes, amazement in every word. "You are so brave, for me, do you know?" And his voice hitches as though he might cry. "Do you know how much I— what this means to me?"

With his head against Esca's side he can't see Esca's face. Esca can't see his, either, and he is smiling wide. He is in the right place now, here on his knees before Esca, finally, and it is good, better than good. Overwhelmed with his own joy, he can't think of a thing to say, and just nods for yes, again and again. He knows. He knows.

Esca moves, sharp and sudden, and Marcus has barely a breath to realize the loss before he sees that Esca has not gone from him entirely, that Esca is crouching in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder that he cannot quite feel through the mail. Esca's gaze is brilliant, so intense that it is almost pain, like staring at the sun.

"You are armored," Esca says, slowly, "but you did not come here as a Roman, and I think you know that as well."

Marcus nods; it turns into a shiver, and Esca's words try to draw the reply out of him. He wants to tell him everything. Anything. But he does not know what to say. He is not sure of this strange new self, but he wants to speak only the truth.

"And so I wonder, who are you under the armor, Marcus?" Esca moves his hand to the hook at the neck of Marcus' mail, and with focused, slow deliberation, unhooks it, then sets the hook aside, pushes the cowl back, and works at the knot of Marcus' scarf. "Who are you?"

"I—" his mouth is dry, and he swallows. "I want to find out."

Esca smiles back at him. "Good."

If he had let himself imagine this, he would have thought that Esca would tear passionately at his clothes and have them off him in an instant, or perhaps not even bother with anything more than the necessary pushing-aside of tunics. And there is passion in this indeed, but Esca works slowly, and his face is almost solemn, reverent, as he reaches forward to undo Marcus' belts and place his weapons on the ground. It does not seem to bother him that there is no dignified way to get the mail-shirt off—there never is—and Marcus squirms and gets the thing caught in his hair. Esca's expression does not waver. It is almost as a ritual, and then Marcus finally, finally sees the meaning of it.

"You said you were my shield-bearer," he ventures. "Is this—?"

"Yes," Esca replies, and he speaks in British. "An honor to care for your armor, to care for you."

Marcus understands. And Rome slides further and further away.

The subarmalis with its pteruges and padding comes off easily enough, is folded carefully and placed next to the mail. and Marcus is down to only his short tunic and his boots, and then not even those as Esca moves around him and unlaces his boots. He feels exposed, and he is not even unclothed. And yet he shivers with a queer anticipation. He wants Esca to see him.

"Raise your arms," Esca says, still quiet, and this time his face is a question. It is an opportunity to say no.

There is only one answer he would give. Marcus does not hesitate, and he lifts his arms high. Esca pulls the tunic up and off, and then Marcus is naked before him, exquisitely vulnerable, and for all that, unafraid.

He expects Esca to reach for him—for surely his own arousal has not escaped Esca's notice—or at least to look him over thoroughly, to admire what he has wrought. But he ought to know by now, he thinks, as Esca does none of these things, that Esca never does what he expects.

For Esca does continue staring at him, but his gaze is locked with Marcus' for long moments. Then he holds his hand out and lays his palm flat on Marcus' breast, over his heart.

"There you are," Esca whispers, and his smile is beautiful.

Then Esca leans in close and kisses him, lightly, over and over, and Marcus lets him. It is a strange way to begin—slow, almost wary. Marcus wonders if Esca is afraid he will run if he presses him more, and he does not know how to tell Esca that he wishes Esca would.

Drawing back, Esca looks at him and his mouth, red and wet, twitches in a quick grin. Then he leans in and kisses harder, biting Marcus' lip, and the bloom of pain and not-pain makes Marcus shiver and moan. Yielding to Esca is the most natural thing in the world, opening his mouth and letting Esca take what he would.

And that, it seems, was enough to let Esca know, or perhaps it was what Esca himself intended to do anyway. Esca's hand slides up to Marcus' shoulder, curls possessively over the curve of his neck, and in between kisses that grow rougher, more urgent, Esca pulls him sideways and down to the ground.

Esca's fingers skim along his side, swirling in lazy, slow touches along his ribs, and then Esca laughs and pushes Marcus onto his back, holding him down, and Marcus relaxes into Esca's hands. It will be all right. Esca has him.

"Tell me," Esca says. "Tell me what you want."

Marcus frowns and fights his way through the haze of lust to reply. "What you want. I would do what you want." For it is true, and the right answer, is it not? It is Esca's to decide, and it is better that way, if he does not have to give voice to it.

But Esca shakes his head a little, though he still smiles. "Oh, we will do what I want. And whatever we do, it will be a thing you want as well, I am sure. But what I want, you see, is for you to tell me you want it. I want you to say it."

"I—"

He opens his mouth and no words emerge; fear descends on him, and he feels himself go tense with it. He can't say anything. He can hardly think the things he desires, and the terrible shame looms nearer. He was wrong, he was wrong about how much he could handle, because he cannot even deal with this, and he wants to flee—

"Shh." Esca's eyes go soft and his face relaxes, calming, soothing, even as his hand tightens over Marcus' arm. "You are safe. It is only we two here, and I will not think ill of you for anything you want. I promise it."

Marcus' mouth is dry and he swallows convulsively. "I— I might think ill of myself."

"Oh, Marcus." Esca moves off him, then, to lie next to him. He raises a hand, tangling his fingers again in Marcus' hair. He is silent for a long while, and Marcus is grateful for that; he would not have Esca's pity. Rome has left its mark on him, like a sculptor's chisel in marble, and even he does not know what remains of him beneath all her laws. Perhaps Esca is irritated with him; perhaps he would rather be with someone of his own people, someone who has never been taught that so many things are wrong.

"I want to," he says, and he squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. "I want so many things, but I cannot speak of them. I am sorry."

"I will speak, then," Esca says, still gentle, and Marcus opens his eyes to see that Esca is not angry with him at all. "I will name a few things I would like to do, and if you can say yes—"

Marcus nods at that, at least. "I will try."

And then Esca's hand is on Marcus' hip, and he knows this is not an aimless wandering, but rather, something purposeful. Esca's thumb presses heavily, stroking his skin, and, oh, if he would move but a few inches— but Esca does not, and only teases him, tracing the muscle down lower with his fingertips. Marcus is so hard now, and Esca has not even touched him, and already it is more and more difficult to think of his fears.

Esca smiles, sharp and dark-eyed. "I could bring you off with my hand, of course." The words are low and intense, the suggestion not at all tentative. And this is good, safe, a thing he can do. "I've thought about this for months, you know. It would be easy. I could wrap my hand around you just so, stroke you until you spend. It could be quick, if you liked, but I like the idea of making you wait for it. You'd have to ask me. Beg me."

Marcus' heart pounds and his breaths are ragged. "You— you could, if you wanted, please—"

"Oh, the second one?" Esca raises his eyebrows, teasing; he can tell Marcus is begging already. "I like that one best myself. I've found the thought very... appealing, these past few months, when I've had some time to myself to, shall we say, contemplate it."

Of course he knows Esca wants him, but listening to Esca tell him about it is a different thing entirely. Marcus thinks he might have whimpered. "Please," he says again, "please, Esca, touch me—"

"Like this?"

Esca grins at him, and then Esca's hand is finally around his cock, tight like he likes it, and Marcus moans and shoves his hips up, finally, finally—

"Yes," Marcus gasps out, "yes, like that—"

But then, all too soon, Esca's hand drifts away.

"You don't want to come like that, though, do you, Marcus?" Esca murmurs in his ear. "It's all right if you do; I can keep going. But I think you want something else."

Marcus nods, and that bit is not so difficult, but he does not think he can say the words yet. "Something else, yes," he manages, and it is not quite so terrifying to contemplate, the thought of Esca in him. It is only Esca, and he is sure Esca would be easy with him, and so it would not hurt much, would it? It would be like Esca touching him everywhere.

Esca draws his head back and peers at him, his eyes wide with desire, only the barest sliver of color at the edges of the darkness, and he knows what Marcus wants. He has known for a while, Marcus is aware. But this is no taunt, no goad, and it does not terrify him any longer. He wants this. 

"I could fuck you," Esca says, still smiling. "I want to, if you would let me. I've wanted to for a long time."

He is shaking with his own need; he tries to nod for yes, but can only manage a slow, trembling breath. Esca wants this as well, and that is excellent, that is perfect.

"That's it, isn't it?" The words are not really a question, and Esca pauses on an indrawn breath, a kind of appreciation, as though Marcus is offering him something precious. "Oh, Marcus. You've never— you haven't done this before, have you?"

"Never." Marcus shakes his head. "But I want— I want it. I want you to fuck me." And there, he has said it, he has finally said it, and with the words come all the other things he can't say. He wants Esca holding him down hard, roughly, and through the restraint he will finally be free—

Esca kisses him, a reward for his words. "I will go slowly at first," he says, voice solemn, "and it will be good, I promise." His smile has an excited cast to it, gone wider, quivering a little.

"Let me guess," Marcus says, trying not to laugh in the middle of all the tension, "is this also one of the things you enjoyed... contemplating?"

And Esca chuckles a little. "It might have been. The idea of showing you something so wonderful and new has a certain appeal, I will admit."

Since Esca seems to like it, it cannot hurt that much, can it? Marcus has the feeling that, when he fucked men before, it might have hurt them—but slaves will not say, and whores will certainly act like they enjoy everything. And he is a soldier; of course he can handle pain.

The practical considerations occur to him, then. "If we are doing this, do we not need oil, or something else to ease the way?"

"I thought of that." Esca's reply is cheery.

Marcus watches as Esca moves off him to fetch something in his satchel, rummaging through it. He squints as Esca holds up—

"Isn't that your ration of oil for bathing?"

Esca shrugs, unconcerned. "And when I need to bathe, I'll request more. Or borrow yours." His grin is unrepentant. "Actually, this one might have been yours already."

Marcus tries and fails to be annoyed; it is hard with Esca smiling at him, looking at him like he is the best thing in the world. But it seems unfair that he is so exposed here and Esca is not. He could ask. It feels strange to him, wanting to make Esca a thing to stare at. But the Britons are different; perhaps they will not mind.

"Esca?" His voice is tentative.

"Yes?"

"Can you—" he tries. "I would wish to look at you, if you would permit it?"

"Oh, of course!" Esca sounds a little abashed, as though it is only some small detail he has forgotten, and he begins stripping off his clothing as if it is nothing to him to be naked.

And in a short while Esca is gloriously nude, standing before him. He is hardly the model of beauty, the one poets write about. He is all planes and sharp angles and bones, wiry with sinew and muscle, pale even in the shade of the trees. But he is beautiful to Marcus, and at this moment Marcus thinks no one could possibly be more so. With his eyes he follows the lines of muscle down from Esca's stomach and hips to where Esca's cock stands, thick and dark with need. Marcus' mouth goes dry with desire, and he wants—

"See anything you like?" Esca asks, and Marcus looks up to see that Esca is smirking, just a little.

"All of you," Marcus says, honestly, and is Esca blushing?

Esca kneels down next to him, oil in hand. "If you roll over," he starts, "I can—"

Marcus takes a deep breath. "You can push me." 

And this is how it begins.

Esca's eyes go wide, and then his hands are on Marcus, holding him, turning him over, splayed across his back and thighs and holding him down, exactly how he wants it. He waits for Esca to enter him roughly, with fingers or cock, but Esca only shifts to half-sit on one of Marcus' legs, to free a hand to stroke along the curve of his ass. Marcus thinks about everyone he has ever fucked before and curses himself for being a thoughtless fool. He was never so kind.

He feels Esca's hand drift down between his buttocks, a finger sliding lightly between them. Even dry, it already feels wondrous, and he tries to push himself up, to get more, more, something. He does not know what it is, even, but he craves it. He could if Esca weren't sitting on him, but he has to take what Esca gives. He is at Esca's mercy.

A low chuckle. "Oh, you like this, don't you? You'd beg for me. I could do this all day, watch you just try to fuck yourself."

The finger is lifted, and Marcus awkwardly turns his head to see if that means Esca would have him beg now, but he can see that Esca is smiling and pouring oil out onto his hand, a generous amount.

Then Esca's hand is back, slick now, and he wants it, wants it in him, wants Esca to take him and fuck him with his hand or his cock or _anything_ —

"Breathe," Esca says. It is still a command, but his voice is low and reassuring. "Breathe deeply. It may feel strange, but tell me if it hurts, because it should not hurt." The nails of his other hand dig into Marcus' thigh, a warm, distracting pain that makes Marcus moan. "And do not play the brave soldier and tell me it does not hurt if it does. Do you understand?"

"Understood." He breathes, in and out and—

Esca presses his finger harder, harder, and it is good— and suddenly, something gives way and Marcus feels the slow slide of Esca within him. It is... strange, a novel sensation. He does not dislike it, exactly, but he is not sure he likes it either, and he frowns. At least it does not hurt, and Esca is remaining still.

Shifting a little off him, to see Marcus' face, Esca peers at him. "All right?"

"I think so." He tries to nod. "It does not hurt, but I do not know if I like it."

Esca smiles an encouraging smile. "Some men do not, and you might not, but you should give it a little more time. And if you do not like it at all, well, then you can fuck me. And don't tell me you've never done that, liar."

Marcus laughs, and with Esca's hand in him it makes him clench up, the oddest feeling. "But I wanted you to—" _Take control_ , he wants to say.

Fortunately, Esca seems to know what he means. "Trust me, Marcus, I am perfectly capable of rolling you back over, pinning you down, and riding you until you forget your own name." And he says it as if it is perfectly normal that he might be in control while he is being fucked. It is a bizarre, un-Roman thing to say. And also incredibly arousing.

"Oh."

"Here," Esca says, laughing. "See how you like this."

And he begins to move his finger, at first so slowly that Marcus can hardly tell. It is a curious feeling, still, almost on the edge of pleasure, but he resigns himself to it: it does not hurt, and so he can certainly do this thing for Esca. It was silly to think he might truly enjoy it, anyway, for who likes getting fucked? They must call it suffering for a reason.

Then Esca presses hard, deep in him, and—

Everything is warm, and something bright and wondrous flares to life within him, there where Esca is touching him, and it is so good, so good he almost cannot bear it, almost like coming except he knows he is not. He thinks he is shouting or moaning something—maybe Esca's name—and he wants him never to stop.

Esca moves his finger away and out, and Marcus pants and unclenches his hands from where he seems to have grabbed the cloak. "Esca," he says and words come slowly to him, in the face of that. "What have you done to me?"

The smile Esca gives him is half-proud, but mixed with a strange sadness, and with his free hand he reaches out to lay his palm against Marcus' cheekbone. "Oh, Marcus," he murmurs, "did you really think suffering meant it would actually hurt you?"

Marcus does not need to tell him yes.

"Does it—" he can hardly get a sentence out, amidst his shaking breaths— "does it feel that good all the time?"

Esca's grin is wide, not at all sad any longer. "Better."

And then Esca is back, two fingers in him now, working him slowly, carefully, with more oil than Marcus would ever have thought necessary, and somehow it is all good now, even when Esca is not touching him just at that spot. He almost wants to laugh at himself—why did he never do this before? How could he have thought it wrong?

He isn't sure Esca can hear him, but he's moaning, his face shoved against the cloak. "Please, Esca, please. More." It's all he can think about. He wonders if he'll ever be able to think about anything else again.

"All right." Esca's hand leaves him again, and then there are hands on his hips, pulling him back and up. "Hands and knees," Esca growls from behind him, and he feels the heavy warmth of Esca's body pressing all along his back, and then, very delicately, teeth nipping at the skin under his shoulder blade. "I think you'll still remember it's me. Won't you?"

Marcus nods, over and over, struggling to hold his head up. "It's you." It could never be anyone else.

"Breathe," Esca repeats. "Try to relax. Bigger than fingers, but you'll take it."

So he breathes, in and out and in again. Esca's hand tightens on his hip, and Marcus focuses on that, instead of the heavy blunt pressure that is never going to fit, and oh, that's Esca, right there—

Between one breath and the next, Esca is in him, holding perfectly still, save the trembling in his hands that even Marcus can feel, the shaking of his thighs where he is pressed up against him. 

"Oh," Esca says, his voice a slight, moaning breath, brimming with pleasure, and Marcus thinks about coming just from the sound of it.

"I'm fine," Marcus says, then desperately— "please, please—"

He feels more than hears Esca laugh. "You beg so nicely for me."

And then Esca thrusts into him, and Marcus knows nothing else but the feeling of Esca, deep within him. And it is so right for Marcus to be here, for him to submit to Esca, to be taken by him. Above him Esca moans and snaps his hips hard against him, harder and harder.

It is better than his fantasies. He never thought it would feel like this. Esca fucks him the same way he fights, the same way he does everything, with a smooth, graceful competence, a confidence born of experience. And there is love here, too, Marcus knows. Esca is not using him for his body. Esca looses a hand from his hip, to stroke all along Marcus' side, along his shoulders, back down to his hips and legs. He strives to touch him anywhere he can, it seemed, not to rub him off but merely because he wants to feel him, to be close. And knowing that is— Marcus cannot even comprehend the enormity of it. Esca wants _him_.

Esca moans things in British, half-words, things Marcus cannot quite make out. The ones he can hear are words of praise, things like _good_ and _beautiful_ and _perfect_ , and Marcus smiles to himself, glad Esca cannot see his face.

It is all right to give into this. He wants this, and Esca wants him, and—

"It's never been like this," he finds he is saying, amazed and incredulous. Of course it hasn't, in one respect; he's never done this particular act. But of all the people he's slept with, none of them have made him feel like this. Like it matters. Like it's about something beyond the fucking, like Esca would still say these fine compliments even were they not lying together. "What have you done to me?" he asks again. "What are you doing?"

Esca laughs and does not even slow down, as his caressing hand comes up to the back of Marcus' neck, tracing patterns along it. "I told you," he whispers. "Loving you."

And Marcus can still say nothing to that, with those words buried too far down in him. But he smiles and lifts his head back and he thinks Esca knows anyway.

Now Esca is panting, his breathing hoarse and ragged, thrusting into him faster and harder and faster, and Marcus knows Esca is close.

"You're—" Esca gasps out— "you're going to come first, Marcus. I'll make you."

And Esca drops his free hand to Marcus' cock just as he moves, and oh, it is exactly that place again, with Marcus trapped so wonderfully between Esca's cock and Esca's hand. He swings his hips up to feel Esca touch deep inside him, and then down to where Esca's hand is tight around his cock, fingers pushing at him just under the head, moving slick and fast.

Marcus tries to draw breath, to say anything. Esca has not told him to come, not yet, and he wants Esca to tell him so. "I can't hold out. Please, I'm going to come, please let me—"

"Then come. Spend for me," Esca says, and his hand tightens, and that's it, that's all he can take—

And Marcus is shaking and coming hard into Esca's hand, trembling, with Esca still moving in him, half-holding him up and there is nothing in the world except Esca—

He can hardly hold himself up with his arms, and it is not much longer before Esca groans and thrusts heavily and deep, coming within him, falling forward and pressing kisses down his spine, to any part of Marcus he can reach. Sated, drained, Marcus can no longer hold them and they tumble together onto the cloak, in happy lassitude.

Afterwards, when Esca has extricated himself, he flips Marcus over to his back and, heedless of the mess they have made of everything, cuddles up to Marcus, fitting himself against Marcus' side, with his head on Marcus' chest.

"Well?" Esca asks, smiling. "Everything you hoped for?"

Marcus smiles dazedly back. He does not think he has words for any of it, but he kisses Esca again and again, and he hopes that is enough.

* * *

They stay like that, holding each other for a long time. If Marcus is honest with himself, mostly Esca is holding him. He pulls Marcus into his arms and strokes his hair and asks him how he fares. Esca kisses him and whispers soft gentle things, words Marcus would never have asked for, but loves to hear all the same. Esca tells him he is beautiful, tells him he did everything rightly and there is no reason to fear, nor to feel shame (and Marcus did not even ask that, but it warms his heart to know Esca would reassure him so), tells him how he would do this again and again if Marcus would have him.

As the day begins to darken into evening, Marcus looks up at the sky, regretting that they cannot stay like this longer. "I think perhaps we should return to camp now," Marcus says, reluctantly.

Esca nods in agreement, and they head to the cold, cold stream to wash themselves and attempt to clean Esca's poor cloak. Not even the mud comes off, and Esca laughs to see it.

"I'll buy you a new one," Marcus promises, reckless and free with his words. He would buy Esca anything, do anything for him, anything to please him.

Another laugh. "You're too kind." Esca pauses, smiling again. "I like you like this, Marcus."

Esca slides into his own clothing afterward, all the while staring at Marcus as though he cannot tear his eyes away, and helps Marcus slowly into his own gear. Marcus had thought Esca's touch might be easier to bear now that Esca is clothed, but he finds that he is already aroused again as Esca brushes his hands over him, and from the flush on Esca's face, he would wager that Esca is as well. 

For now he knows Esca, and he can look at the stark sweep of Esca's collarbone disappearing under his tunic, or the line of his hip, and remember seeing Esca, touching him. Esca's hands are on him with just as much care as earlier, fastening his mail, wrapping the scarf at his throat, and Marcus knows if Esca touches him for one instant longer they won't leave.

He swallows. "We have to go."

"I know." Esca lifts his hand, presses one last kiss to Marcus' wrist, and steps back to retrieve his own belongings.

Marcus feels as though surely everyone who sees him must know now that he is different, he is changed, but when they finally reach the garrison the bored gate-guards wave him through, hardly looking at him.

And if the men of his century notice anything unusual about them, they do not say. Marcus is thankful for that, even as he wishes he could tell them all how he loves Esca. He wishes he could tell Esca, Esca who has dared to say so much more than he thinks he ever could, but he is glad that Esca does not press him to. Not about this.

In his own tent he finds a message left on his desk. It will not be good news, he knows somehow, and so it can wait for him to finally remove his armor for the last time today. When he is finally down to his tunic and his gear is stowed, he moves to take a look at it.

Paetinus, Camulorix, and Carantos, dicing at the far end of the tent, stop when they see him at his desk. The knucklebones scatter across the dirt in a Venus throw, but Carantos does not even look at his undoubtedly-winning dice, instead looking up at him.

"Did you find Esca, sir?" Carantos asks, perfectly innocently.

Marcus nods and tries to stand tall. He is this man's centurion, after all; he has authority here. "I did. Thank you for the directions."

"Was he well?" Paetinus puts in, and Marcus can see him trying not to grin.

Marcus struggles not to laugh or blush or do anything embarrassing; thinking of Esca is already making him smile. "He was. Very well indeed."

The men know, then. And they do not disapprove. Something within Marcus relaxes. He had thought they might not fight for a commander who was a cinaedus. Perhaps if they were Romans they would care, but they are not, and so if no one complains to the tribune—and why would they?—no harm will come of it.

Paetinus scoops up the bones. "Glad to hear it."

"Oh," Camulorix says, recalling something. "There was a message for you from a man the Sixth Legion. Said there was no point in keeping the orders secret: we'll be wanted again at Trimontium tomorrow. The damned Caledonii are faster than they thought." And he spits on the ground as he says the name.

Another battle for which they are woefully underprepared, then, and they barely survived the last one. Harsh reality cuts through Marcus' euphoric haze.

"Thank you for letting me know," he says, his smile fading as he mouths the words of Vestinus' message, which are as Camulorix described. Tomorrow, then. And tonight, another night that might be his last, or the last of some of his men. No wonder they are dicing: they might as well enjoy themselves.

Eventually the game winds down and the gamblers leave as Marcus looks through more and more maps, reads the reports of the growing numbers of Caledonii. There are many of them, to be sure, but only a few distinct tribes, and if they could but find their leaders and stop them, perhaps something could be done. They cannot besiege the fort without their chieftains. But, as it stands, Trimontium does not have the men to stop them, and the reinforcements from Eburacum, another cohort of the Sixth, cannot reach here in time.

Marcus has the vague feeling he has forgotten something as he reads each report, that there is some factor he has not accounted for, something that might save them. But he cannot remember it, and he shuts his eyes in frustration and misery, trying to think of the thing he has forgotten, nearly on the tip of his tongue. He does not know how long he sits there. His candles are burning down and he cannot, cannot remember—

"Marcus?"

It is Esca's voice, and when he finally opens his eyes it is dark in the tent, with all but one gone and the night well into the first watch. But he would know Esca anywhere, even if he can't quite see him with his back to the torchlight outside.

Esca must be able to see him, because he steps closer and lights the lamp Marcus hadn't bothered with using the last candle. "Marcus, you look awful." His face is furrowed in concern. "What's the matter?"

He waves his hands at the maps and strategies in impotent despair. "You have heard we are bound for Trimontium tomorrow, against the Caledonii?"

Esca nods. "There are rumors."

"I think them likely to be worse than the Votadini," Marcus says, and the words are bitter ashes in his mouth. "And with fewer of us there to hold the fort—"

Esca steps close, and his arms are around Marcus, holding him tight, and Marcus does not care who sees them. But then Esca steps back, as if it was only the brief, consoling gesture of a friend. Marcus wonders whether this means something happened to change Esca's mind, but then Esca glances back at the open tent flap and Marcus guesses he only means that he would not do this in front of the entire century. Or perhaps he thinks Marcus would not. Esca does not seem to Marcus to be the sort of man who would be restrained in his affections; it is as if once he makes up his mind to feel a thing, he feels it with all of his heart, proud and without shame.

"All of us will fight as well as we can for you." The words are simple, delivered as the plain truth. "You're the best commander any of us have ever served under. I do not think there is anything more you could do to prepare us for what is to come."

The tent is silent for long moments and then Marcus holds out a hand.

"Stay with me? For the night?" The words rasp and are hard to get out, and what if Esca says no, what if he only meant to do this the once—

Esca waits a long while before answering. "The men will notice if I do," he says quietly. He does not sound reproachful, or unwilling, but only explanatory, as if he thinks it might bother Marcus.

"They know already." Marcus is almost dizzy with something halfway between fear and anticipation. "And— we could die tomorrow, Esca. We don't have to do... anything more, if you do not want it, but I would be glad to have you here with me."

"Oh, Marcus." Esca is shaking his head, but smiling too. "Did you think one time was all I wanted? I will do everything."

And he steps back and pulls the tent flaps shut, so none can see, then forward, enfolding Marcus in his arms and kissing him again and again, already pushing them back toward Marcus' pallet in the corner.

Marcus pulls his mouth away long enough to wonder why the room is still light. "Esca?" he wonders. "Should we not douse the lamp?"

"Not yet." Esca bites the base of his neck hard and Marcus almost forgets what he asked through the tide of pleasure-pain. "This time I want to see your face."

Then Esca tumbles them both to the bed and, for the rest of the night, no worries of the future can touch him.

* * *

Marcus drifts slowly awake at the sound of the morning trumpets. His first half-conscious thought is that he is warm, excellently warm, in a way he has missed for months. Then he wakes a little more, and his second thought is even better: it is because Esca is here, in his bed, wrapped around him. The bed is small, and Esca is mostly on top of him, but Marcus hardly minds his weight in the least.

Esca cracks one gray-blue eye, narrowly, and then Marcus is rewarded with a beautiful, unguarded smile.

"Good morning," Marcus ventures.

Esca pushes himself up on his elbows and kisses Marcus thoroughly. "I almost thought I dreamt it." His voice is full of wonder.

"It's all real," Marcus says, kissing him back, and then remembers the day that is to come. "As is Trimontium. Which we had best be heading to."

Esca levers himself up, regret in his eyes, and tosses Marcus his tunic, which had been thrown on the floor with everything else both of them had been wearing. "Here. I help you with your armor, you help me with mine?"

"Am I my shield-bearer's shield-bearer?" Marcus asks, in British, just to tease, as he pulls his tunic over his head.

Lacing up his boots—and how did he get dressed already?—Esca smiles at him. "I can't think of anyone else I'd want, Marcus."

Marcus can only smile, as the words he wishes he could say—that that pleases him to hear, for he loves Esca—remain trapped in his mouth. Someday, someday he will say them. But for now, thankfully, Esca seems content with what he has. Perhaps he knows it is hard for Marcus to talk about.

They help each other into their armor and though Marcus knows no one can possibly avoid seeing the two of them emerge from his tent—not to mention that he does not think they were as quiet as they could have been, last night—no one says anything. And they are ready soon enough. The men, those of them who are still unharmed, are armored, armed, arrayed in formation by squad, although several of the squads are much depleted.

"All right," Marcus calls out. "To Trimontium!"

He leads them on the fastest march he can, Esca keeping time with the jingling of his staff, and luckily the road is well-kept. Still, it is hours before they arrive, and they are ushered hastily into the fort.

Trimontium is bustling with people, but it does not take any time to notice that the Caledonii will have an easier fight than did the Votadini. Even some of the sentries are wounded, and Marcus winces to see it.

Marcus leaves Esca in charge of finding a place to put the men and rushes off for a hurried meeting with Vestinus and the rest of the centurions. When he gets to headquarters, the tribune is in fact already talking:

"—going to attack the fort directly, as soon as tomorrow morning," Vestinus says, looking stern, and Marcus knows already that this is not going to be good. "We'll have archers, men with slings, and any trained men who can be put on the walls will help."

This is their only chance at survival. Vestinus does not come right out and say so, of course, but Marcus knows every man here is thinking it.

Another centurion shifts and looks as though he wants to ask a question. "Tribune?"

"Yes?"

"Are we also leaving the walls to engage the enemy on the ground?"

"Wedge formations," Vestinus says, crisply. Of course he would say that; it is the logical tactic. But Marcus knows already it will be his century out there on the ground. The more dangerous job, certainly, and his men still have almost no training in formations. Perhaps he can convince the tribune they are skilled enough in archery to post them to the walls. "After the archers, of course."

Marcus is surprised to see Eonus in the back of the group, but then he reflects that Trimontium needed all the men they could take, and he edges his way around to the man.

"Hail," Eonus whispers, as Vestinus' speech sketches out plans of attack. "I heard about you and the Eagle the other day, centurion. That was well done."

"Thank you, sir," Marcus returns, just as quietly.

Eonus frowns, taking in Marcus' worried face, the few cuts he still bears from the earlier battle. "And how are you and your barbarians?"

"Surviving," Marcus says, listlessly. "Though not for long, I fear, if we are in that wedge."

In front of them, Vestinus is calling out the names of the centuries, their assignments. "Second cohort of the sixth legion, sixth century—on the walls. Tenth auxiliary cohort, fourth century, in the wedge. Fifth century—" and Eonus, next to him, tenses— "on the walls."

Eonus relaxes visibly, even smiling.

"The gods bless you, centurion," Marcus says, politely, at his superior's good fortune, even as he dreads the name that is coming next.

"Tenth auxiliary cohort, sixth century," Vestinus says, and Marcus is holding his breath— "in the wedge."

Marcus registers the news with a dull resignation. It hardly feels real. That is it, then. He cannot expect to be so lucky as to win victory here, not again, not with an already-wounded century. At least— at least he will not be alone. He does not think he can outlive Esca.

He contemplates devotio. He is not sure if it would count enough in the eyes of the gods, with him only a centurion and not a fine general, but if his life would stop the Caledonii from taking Trimontium—

It is then that the messenger runs in. He is one of the sentries, by the look of him, and he pants out his news. "Sirs!" he cries. "Britons!"

Vestinus looks up sharply. "The Caledonii?"

The messenger looks confused. "Not enough men to be them, tribune, and they are acting strangely."

Vestinus' brows draw together, confused. "How far out are they?"

"Not far," the soldier says, "but holding. Not advancing at all."

Vestinus' eyes scan the room and settle on Marcus. "Aquila! Eonus!" he snaps out. "Your centuries are scouts, and you know the tribes. Go, watch them, tell me who they are, whether they are threats."

Marcus salutes. Next to him Eonus does the same, and they are out the door at a run, following the sentry.

Marcus climbs the walls in haste, just behind Eonus, and when he finally gets his head up over the stone he does not know what to make of it. There are Britons there, all right, almost too far to see. They are dressed in bright clothes, girded for battle—he can see the light sparkle off their spears, and some have their hair lime-washed, pale as a shade. But they are not moving, and though they are mounted, there are perhaps twenty of them. Much too few to be the Caledonii invasion.

"Who are they?" Eonus breathes, his face a study in confusion, and Marcus shakes his head. He had been hoping the other man would know.

The sentry points. "Look, one of them's moving!"

And indeed a man at the front is beginning to ride forward. Metal gleams on him, but something isn't right here, something is strange.

One of the archers nocks an arrow, without being asked. Eonus does not reprimand him, and so Marcus does not either. But he can't figure out—

"The man's not armed," Marcus says, suddenly.

"What? But is that not the glint of—"

"He's not armed," Marcus repeats. "It's a sort of necklace. The princes and chieftains, they wear them."

Eonus says nothing, and the archer raises a bow. Next to him, another man loads a sling.

Below them, the Briton lifts a hand from the reins and holds it out, weaponless. He is a tall man, built narrow, his long, light hair hanging in his face, and Marcus can almost remember—

The archer aims—

And then he remembers.

"Don't shoot!" Marcus yells. "I know him! He's an ally!"

And from below, Balcorix draws his horse to a stop and calls out, regal like any prince of the Brigantes. "Hail, Trimontium! I come as a friend, to offer my people's aid in war. And, if he is here, I wish to speak to a centurion by the name of Marcus Aquila. I owe him a favor."

Eonus turns to Marcus, eyes wide in disbelief. "Aquila," he asks, and his face is pale, "what in the name of all the gods have you been doing?"

"I'll explain later," Marcus says, and he grabs the nearest sentry. "Pass the word for my optio, and tell Vestinus I bring a visitor. And someone open the gates!"

* * *

Balcorix' appearance at headquarters causes some consternation. Though the legion of course knows there are British scouts, seeing a Briton stand proud and resplendent with jewelry, shining in bright clothing, is a new thing even for most of the centurions, Marcus would guess. The soldiers stare, wary-eyed, and the only thing keeping them from drawing iron is that Marcus and Esca walk on either side of him. Eonus trails behind, still looking thoroughly confused. 

Vestinus looks up. To his credit, he hardly looks at all shocked, as everyone else clears to let the four of them by. "Who have you brought me, Aquila? Our visitors at the gate?"

Marcus nods. "They are Brigantes. Friends." While _friends_ might not be the best choice of words for Balcorix' men—he suspects there was more amicitia with Rome in Esca's former clan—they are certainly not enemies. "This is Balcorix," he says, and stops, having no idea how else to introduce the man.

"I am the son of Segos, grandson of Maglorix," Balcorix says proudly. "My grandfather is a clan-chieftain of our people."

"And," Esca puts in, "he is my cousin, my mother's sister's son."

This last sentence makes Vestinus raise his eyebrows and purse his lips in a thoughtful cast, and indeed it seems to be what convinces him. Anyone will understand that even the Britons have obligations to their family.

"I am here because I owe the centurion, Aquila, a favor," Balcorix says in exquisitely well-mannered Latin, as if daring anyone to call him a barbarian by his speech. "He has not called it in, but I think at this moment he might like to." He inclines his head not to Vestinus, but to Marcus. "Forgive me if I presume overmuch, centurion."

Vestinus does not look as surprised as he could have been; he was there when Marcus told Suilius about the meeting, after all. He at least knows Marcus saved the man's life.

"And why might Aquila want your help now?" Suilius asks dryly.

Balcorix grins like a beast on the hunt; it is an expression Marcus has seen on Esca's face too. He steps closer. "We were on our way home," he begins. "The other day we found a band of Votadini warriors, not too far from here. After some... disagreement, they were persuaded to tell us that the Caledonii had their hearts set on taking this fine fort of yours, the very one that they had intended to make you think we were attacking."

"So here you are." Vestinus' tone is hard to interpret, but he does not sound happy. "Have you brought men to help defend our walls?"

"Oh, I have brought you something better." Balcorix laughs, the sound of a man immensely pleased with himself. "This morning we spied the encampment of the Caledonii chiefs. All of them. We Brigantes would never do such a foolish thing, but who can speak to the ways of these people?" He gives an eloquent shrug. "But we did not have quite enough men to take them, and I thought my cousin and his centurion might—"

"Yes." Esca's words, an interruption, are quick and fierce. "I would."

Vestinus stares, and his mouth shapes silent words as if he is turning the thing over in his mind. "You are suggesting that I send men to kill the leaders of the Caledonii before they attack." He does not sound censorious, but nor is it entirely positive.

The honorable ways of Roman warfare clearly escape Balcorix. "They would kill you if they could. You will throw the rest of them into confusion, and from there it will be easy."

Marcus clears his throat. "It is what my century does, sir." Perhaps if the man can be convinced it is not a new thing, that the only way to deal with British ambushes is for the Romans themselves to fight like Britons, then he will see.

The tribune draws a long hissing breath through his teeth. "Go, Aquila. Take horses, take whatever you need." Then, to Balcorix: "How many men?"

"Not too many, as long as they are good. Five, perhaps ten."

Marcus doesn't even have to think about it. "Esca, the squad with the fewest injured?"

"Paetinus'," Esca supplies instantly. "Only one man down, everyone else unharmed."

It is fortunate that they are the best choice, for, since they are the men Marcus has worked with the most closely, he knows also that he would trust him to do this.

"Thank you," Marcus says, and he salutes the tribune before the three of them leave, at a pace just barely short of a run. Time is, once again, a rapidly-dwindling luxury.

The next few hours are taken up with ushering the rest of the Brigantes in, explaining the situation to the century, putting together his gear, and once again sliding out of his armor in the too-small tent he is sharing with Esca. He had not thought to bring native clothing when he was only going to stand in a battle line, and ends up borrowing dark, unadorned braccae and a tunic from Balcorix. The braccae will be a good idea if they are crawling through the brush again, and armor is too noisy for the ambush they are planning. They will attack at nightfall or try to, when it will be the hardest for the Caledonii to see, when some may already be sleeping.

Esca, half-naked, grins over at Marcus and offers him a bucket of mud, which he smears on Marcus' face and the lighter parts of Marcus' clothing with equal parts intensity and pleasure. He seems happy merely to touch him. It certainly pleases Marcus.

"I think you just like mud," Marcus concludes, as Esca wipes a dirty hand across his cheek, perhaps lingering a little. If it will make Esca touch him more, he almost does not mind the dirt.

Esca grins. "I never claimed to be a Roman."

Marcus is glad he is not, he wants to say, for he loves Esca as he is—but that is another one of the things he cannot give voice to. But he just smiles as Esca pulls his tunic on and adds more dirt to it.

Shortly thereafter, they get horses from the cavalry wing, horses they do not even have to steal. They are not the finest Marcus has seen, he thinks, as he eyes the small bay mare dubiously, but they will do.

And then the gates are opened for them, and they are off, galloping across the countryside, Balcorix in the lead. He sets a hard pace, and there is no leisure for Marcus to ponder what they are to do, to converse with any of the men, or in truth to do anything except stay on his horse.

They do not stop for anything, and it is near dusk still when Balcorix halts, and the rest of the party with him, dismounting at the edge of a wooded region.

"We leave the horses here," he says, quietly. He speaks British, and Marcus is not sure how it makes him feel to know that he himself is the sole Roman on this errand. He is not one of them, of course, but Balcorix treats him as he treats all of his men, it seems. Or at least, he is no longer speaking Latin for Marcus' benefit. "If the centurion would care to call the attack...?"

Now, this is the formality, for it is, after all, an affair of Rome. "I will make the first strike myself," Marcus says, "when we are all in position."

Weapons are drawn, and the group disperses into knots of two and three, sinking into the forest without a sound. Marcus puts his hand on his dagger, not yet unsheathing it, and Esca steps closer to him. There was no need for him to ask who would accompany him, it seemed. Esca will guard him, and he will guard Esca.

It is not too far into the forest when they hear voices, chattering in a language Marcus doesn't recognize. It must be the speech of the Caledonii. Esca hears them first, ducking behind a tree and then grabbing Marcus, so that both of them are out of sight. Marcus' heart pounds, for surely if they can hear the Caledonii, the Caledonii can likewise hear them.

Esca mouths nearly-soundless words. "I don't think they've heard us."

And indeed, the speech does not rise in pitch or twist in anger or alarm. They are safe for now.

The rest of the path through the forest is an agonizingly-slow journey, since they drop low and make their way through the underbrush, stopping to hide behind as many trees as they dare, stopping and breathing. Sweat drips from Marcus' face already; he tells himself it is exertion and not fear. At least the other groups, those who are circling from the far side, cannot be much closer already than they are.

It is not too much longer when Marcus sees a glimpse of movement through the trees, a flash of a striking yellow fabric—braccae, perhaps—that has to belong to one of the Caledonii, as both the Brigantes and Marcus' century have eschewed bright colors for this day. They press closer, and closer still, dropping to the ground on the way, until Marcus can make out the details of the camp. There are perhaps thirty men, not too many, and they are dressed richly, like all the high-ranking British men he has seen. They are older, too, and though there are a few young warriors among them, there are not so many. Many are bare to the waist, their bodies swirling with alien markings.

The closest man, the one in the yellow braccae, turns to them, and Marcus stops in a kind of panic before he sees that the man has not actually seen them, as the man's eyes sweep onward. He is wearing as much fine jewelry as the rest of them, rings and armlets and necklaces hanging to his bare chest. A torc of iron encircles his throat, and he has more tattoos than any of them, his chest all nearly blue with the scars of it. He has the air of a powerful, dangerous man, but perhaps possessed of less strength now than he used to have—his long reddish hair is mixed liberally with silver, and he squints with age rather than suspicion.

Next to him, Esca inhales sharply, and all along Marcus' side where they are pressed together, he can feel Esca shaking with tension.

"I know that man," Esca rasps, loud enough to give them away, as if he does not care who hears them. And still he trembles.

Something is wrong here. He dares a movement, turning his head to see Esca, whose face has paled to an alarming degree, his skin like ash, his jaw clenched tight. Marcus is about to ask Esca who the man is and how he knows him, for Esca certainly did not profess any personal knowledge of the Caledonii. Then he realizes, with an awful, wrenching feeling, that there is only one reason Esca could know any of these people.

"He slew my brothers and father before my eyes," Esca says, his voice ragged and twisted with anger and grief. "He knifed me in the side and left me for dead. I have never forgotten his face."

It is all too easy to picture the scene, Esca near death himself, surrounded by the bodies of his family, and Marcus' heart cries out for him. Esca must have been planning this moment since then, in all the years he has been hunting the Caledonii. He must have been wondering if the man was still alive, and now fortune has brought the man to him. Esca joined the army to find this man, Marcus knows. And here he is, in front of them. Esca killed a man of the Caledonii simply for walking in front of him. Will Esca rush headlong into battle now and give them all away?

Marcus puts a hand out, gripping Esca's shoulder, and he prays that this will not be the motion that gives them away. "You can have your vengeance," he says, hoping that his words will soothe Esca. "Only wait until everyone else in position. Wait, and you can have him."

A grim smile. "I have waited this long, Marcus. I can wait a little longer."

The man moves away, then, but Esca's eyes remain fixed on him. There is little activity on this side of the camp; most of the Caledonii are just outside Marcus' field of vision. A few warriors sit where he can see them, talking to one another in their strange language, not even looking around. They are too confident. They will not know anyone is coming.

On the far side of the glade where these Caledonii are, Marcus can see another, very slight movement. The Caledonii do not mark it, and Marcus only knows because he has been watching intently for this very thing. It is Paetinus, and with hand signs he signals that he and the rest of the squad are in place; via a tilt of his head and another sign, he conveys that Balcorix' men are similarly situated.

They are ready.

"The man in yellow is yours," Marcus says. "I will not interfere."

Esca, still shaking like the string of a lyre, draws a gladius. He has never before carried a gladius on one of these missions, only his British dagger, and Marcus wonders what he means by this. Especially now, when this mission of all of them would be the most personal to him.

Esca nods at him, unsmiling. "I am your optio, Marcus, and I remember that. You will not lose me."

Something unknots in Marcus' chest; a burden lightens that he did not know he carried. "And that is why the Roman sword?"

"That, and it's longer." Trust Esca to be pragmatic. "My father's dagger, though, that suits you very nicely." For that is, of course, the weapon Marcus is holding.

It is somehow right that they should bear each other's arms in battle, Marcus knows, right in a way he cannot explain, but that nonetheless pierces him to his soul.

"Ready?" And he looks to Esca for confirmation.

Esca nods. "At your command."

Marcus rises and leaps for the nearest of the Caledonii warriors, and after that everything is mad. The Brigantes and Marcus' men together come streaming out of the glade, and as Marcus stabs the first man in the back he sees first Paetinus, then Gryllus shoot two more in the head before one of Balcorix' men leaps over the dead, spear at the ready, to skewer another man.

He cannot find Esca in the chaos. The press of fighting drives him away from Esca, for it is not as easy a battle as they had hoped. Oh, the first few fall easily, taken by surprise, but after that they reach for their weapons, and the remaining men become harder and harder to kill.

Falling back on his training, he slips into the rhythm of the fight. Thrust, parry, guard, and always forward, forward, forward—but here the blades are real, and there is no shield to protect him.

A huge Caledonii man, tattoos swirling across his broken nose, swings a dagger and Marcus blocks awkwardly with his free arm, taking a long swipe down the outside of his arm. The man grins and steps in closer, going for the kill—

And then he falls as a spear protrudes messily through his chest. On the other side of him is Carantos, holding a sword in one hand and the stolen spear in the other, with a look of grim triumph on his face.

"Thank you," Marcus gasps out, winded already, and that is all he has words for before the next man is upon him and he cannot afford such distractions as talking. There is a shield of one of the fallen on the ground and he scoops it up; he will not be picky about this.

He thinks he sees Esca, at one point, or at least a flash of the man in yellow, but then the yellow disappears in the mass of bodies, as if the man has already been taken down by Esca. That must be it, then. Esca must have killed him.

Balcorix struggles up to him, his head dripping blood. Marcus hopes the scalp wound only looks worse than it is.

"You fight well for a Roman!" Balcorix says, sounding almost proud, somehow managing to talk and, with his spear, keep the next man from closing on them.

Marcus nods. "You as well, Brigantes."

Vatto, of all people, steps forth and stabs Balcorix' target, and then, and then—

No Caledonii are moving.

_It is over_ , Marcus thinks, and at the same time, _where is Esca?_

And then he sees Esca, perfectly unharmed, kneeling on the body of the man he had been fighting, the man he recognized. The man's fine yellow clothing is smeared with mud and blood, and there is yet more blood on Esca's face. The corpse lies awkwardly, and it is clear that Esca broke at least one of the man's legs in the struggle. That does not explain why Esca is still there, and why he still holds his sword to the man's throat—

Then the man groans, and Marcus realizes he is not yet dead.

"Esca?" he calls out, running over, with Balcorix behind him. "Esca, what—?"

Esca's face is hollow and sad, frightening to behold, as though every positive feeling has simply been ripped away. "He doesn't know me," Esca whispers. "He doesn't remember me. All these years and I could be anyone to him. He's probably killed thousands of people."

Indeed, the Caledonii man's eyes are clouded with pain and confusion, and he babbles something in his own language. Nothing in them suggests recognition.

"He doesn't even know what I'm saying." Esca's voice breaks on the last word, and his hands shake, holding the sword. "How can there be honor in this?"

Marcus doesn't know what to say.

Balcorix, unfortunately, does. He comes around to the other side of the tableau and stares, his face a study in—revulsion? disappointment?—as he steps down on the Caledonii man's hand. Marcus hears bone snap and he winces.

"Slaughter your beast, cousin," he snaps, and it only makes Esca look more ill.

"I—" Esca turns his face away. "It solves nothing. The dead are dead. This avenges no one."

"He's dying anyway!" Balcorix cries out. "Kill him, Esca! He killed your family, your kin, all who were dear to you! Cunoval would have—"

"Do not speak of him!" Esca roars, his voice like fire. "Do not tell me what my father would have done."

Balcorix glares at him. "Kill him. Kill him, be free of him, and live your damned life for yourself."

Esca tears his eyes away from Balcorix and stares at Marcus. His gaze is frantic, pleading, and Marcus does not know what to tell him. Esca has gotten what he thought he wanted, only to find it was nothing at all as he imagined. How can anything make this better? What can he possibly say?

"Kill him," Balcorix repeats. "Are you not a warrior, Esca? Or do you disgrace yourself before the gods?"

Esca goes even paler than before. His mouth shapes two words: _I'm sorry_.

Then his hands jerk. It is a quick, convulsive motion, hardly elegant at all. Marcus looks away before he can see the blood staining Esca's hands as the man's unworthy life flees, with a groan, under the shadows.

* * *

On the slow ride back in the darkness—for it is night now—Esca is silent and hollow-eyed, still pale, as though he himself is an unburied shade. The rest of the men smile, victorious and exhausted, but Esca will have none of it, and Marcus wonders if Esca is forever broken.

"I need to be alone," Esca tells him, quietly, when they reach Trimontium, and Marcus nods and watches him slip away. It is the first thing he has said in hours.

The news is received gratefully, and a sleepless Vestinus rouses more scouts, to determine whether their attack has had some effect. Even as Marcus knows the answer will be yes, he waits until the third watch of the night to hear the news that the Caledonii are already confused, distressed, sending messengers through the forests. Some of them are beginning to retreat.

"The legate will be pleased to hear this," Vestinus says, with a weary smile. "You have routed them, indeed. Now go rest, Aquila."

He is not sure he can sleep while worrying about Esca, but he cannot very well tell the tribune that.

"Sir."

He has the small tent to himself, and he stares for a long time at the hides above him before the tent opens and a shadow slips in. Esca.

Without a word, Esca pulls off his clothes and boots—not reeking of the battlefield; he must have changed and washed—and slips in under the blankets, whose edge Marcus obligingly lifts for him. He does not touch Marcus for long moments, and then suddenly he turns and is clinging to Marcus like a drowning man, fingers digging painfully into Marcus' arms. He has not been drinking, as Marcus thought he might, for he does not smell at all of wine. He smells like salt, and his face, pressed against Marcus' chest, is wet with tears.

"Seven years," Esca whispers, and his voice rasps, wavering on the edge of more tears. "Seven years have I been waiting for this day, and now I have killed him, and it was not what I wanted after all—"

"It's all right," Marcus says, the only thing he can think of, though he knows it cannot be much comfort. "It will be all right."

Esca lifts his head, and his eyes are glassy from crying, reflecting too much light even in this darkness. "Who am I now? Who am I, Marcus?"

He can answer this. At least, he can try. "You are still Esca, son of Cunoval, chief of the Brigantes," he says, as gently as he can. "And if that is bitter to you now, well, then—" he makes himself say it, and hopes it is the right thing— "then you are my optio, whom I have chosen, and you serve Rome honorably. And— and— you are other, dearer things to me besides."

Marcus is wretchedly nervous as the words leave his mouth. What if it is too much to say? Or worse, what if Esca wants more from him than that? Marcus feels so much and can say none of it.

Esca's smile is weak, tentative, but a smile nonetheless. "Am I?"

"You are," Marcus replies, and Esca settles into his arms and says no more as he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

There will be no battle. The Caledonii have taken flight, all the scouts say, running north, panicked, frightened at the loss of their leaders. It was almost too easy, but they have done it. They have won. The Caledonii will not venture south again for a long time, surely, Marcus thinks, and the Votadini know better than to try it by now.

Balcorix and his men bid them farewell at the gates. "Good fortune to you, Aquila," he says, and then gestures to Esca. "And to you, my cousin. You are welcome at any time among us."

Marcus can see that Esca's smile is forced, and he can tell that Esca remembers Balcorix' words to him on the field, and does not think kindly of them.

"I will remember that," Esca says, inclining his head.

"You have run out of Caledonii to hunt, eh? Army life cannot be that exciting."

Esca's eyes are on Marcus. "It has its... rewards," he murmurs, and Marcus tries not to smile.

Balcorix shakes his head as though he still does not understand, lifts his hand once more, and they are off.

"Do you not miss them?" Marcus asks, once the dust has settled.

Esca seems to think a long while before responding. "It is good to see my cousin. But his family was never mine. And besides," he adds, smiling, "I am oath-sworn to stay here." He does not quite say that he has other reasons for staying, but the lift of his eyebrows suggests that he is at least thinking about them, and Marcus wishes he could kiss Esca here, where everyone could see them.

"I am glad you are happy here," he replies, finally, though Esca did not exactly say he was. "It pleases me."

And Esca smiles. "That is a good thing."

His hand falls into Marcus' as they walk back toward their tents. It could have been an accidental brush, but Marcus grabs it and does not let it go for as many paces as he dares.

They wait, and they wait, and with every passing day Marcus thinks it stranger and stranger that Suilius has not summoned him back to their fort, nor has Vestinus or Trimontium's prefect himself ordered them to go. It is not as if it is easy finding space at a fort; eighty more men are an inconvenience if nothing else. But still they are here. There must be some reason that they are waiting, and Marcus is running out of things to have the men do. They are usually immune from normal duties, but at least manning the towers would keep them out of the way.

On the third day a messenger appears at his tent, requesting that he meet Vestinus at headquarters at his earliest convenience.

"Go on," Esca says in British, grinning, as if he is the commander here. "I'll start getting the men ready." For of course it has to be their orders to head home; what else could it be?

It is a quick walk to the courtyard of the headquarters, and in it he meets Vestinus in his small office. The desk is bare of the usual scrolls and tablets, except for one pounded sheet of papyrus in the center. Vestinus looks up at him and smiles. "Ah, Aquila! I apologize for having not contacted you in so many days, but the orders have taken a while to ready."

Strange, for those are easy orders to give, but perhaps he has been more busy lately dealing with the attacks.

"Sir," Marcus begins, "my men are packing as we speak and are ready to head to our home garrison, if you will order it—"

But Vestinus frowns. "Oh, that is not what I meant at all! Certainly the century can go back, but I had wanted to keep you here until the orders arrived. I wrote to my legate when I first heard of you, and again after you retrieved the Eagle. He has not heard yet of your attack on the Caledonii, but it would only increase his high opinion of you."

Marcus nods, bewildered, acknowledging the compliment. It is good that the legate has commended him, but what should that have to do with keeping him here. "I thank you, tribune," he ventures, still confused.

The tribune pauses and takes in Marcus' expression. "You really have no idea what this is about?"

Marcus shakes his head.

"It is good news," he says, smiling widely. "The best! The legate Marcellus indicated that there were vacancies in Egypt for a deserving centurion, and I certainly could think of none braver. Here." He pushes the papyrus across the table.

Marcus reads the words, numbly, as if they are orders for some other Marcus Aquila. A transfer to the legions, the II Traiana currently in Nicopolis, Egypt. He remembers them; they were in Judaea too, in the revolts. And there is a promotion, even! He would be pilus prior. First centurion. Imagine, him, first centurion of a cohort!

"It is not much of a promotion, I know." Vestinus sounds apologetic, as if jumping five steps higher is only a little thing. "But you would be in the legions again, commanding soldiers and not barbarians. And with the letter I shall give you, why, if there should be an opening available any higher up, say, even as a tribune, your new commander would be a fool not to promote you."

He cannot speak. He cannot think; he cannot even form words. "I would leave Britannia?" he manages to ask, and he wonders if the tribune notices how it tears him apart already to ask this.

"Of course." Now it is Vestinus who begins to look confused. After all, who would want to remain posted here?

This is the opportunity of his career, the opportunity any soldier would dream of having. He has dreamed of it, himself, in between his tangled fantasies of retrieving the Ninth's Eagle and restoring his father's name. He cannot do that, but it seems he can redeem his own name through his own efforts, for he is being offered this prize posting, as if Rome never thought him a failure, as if he were the son of any man. All of his ambitions could be achieved, and this promotion is the first step.

He does not want it.

"Can I—" he stumbles, stammers, tries again. "It would be for me alone, then?"

Vestinus stares at him, and then seems to see what he is asking. "You can bring your optio, of course!"

Hope spirals up within him. "But he's not even a citizen—"

"Details!" Vestinus waves his hand. "It can be arranged. It has been done before."

But Esca would not go. Even now, now that he has killed the Caledonii he set out to kill, he would not leave, Marcus knows. Not even for citizenship. He does not care about citizenship, or money, or any thing like that that one would expect him to. And there are not very many Britons serving elsewhere, save a cohort in Dacia. He would be the painted barbarian everywhere he goes, and Marcus knows so many men who would see no more than that in him. Esca would suffer. He could not do that to him.

He must go alone, then. If he goes.

"Who would take the century, if I leave?" He does not want to give them just another Roman, someone sent to them as punishment, someone who does not know them or care to know them—

Vestinus shrugs. "We will find someone. Do not concern yourself with it."

"Can I think about it?"

Vestinus stares at him as though he is mad, for this is not a promotion anyone in their right mind would refuse.

"I suppose," he says, still staring as though he cannot believe Marcus' words. "If you truly wished it, you could retain your current post. The riders for the south head out tomorrow at dawn, with messages. If you go, go with them."

"I understand."

Marcus stands, salutes, and stumbles his way to the tent, barely seeing the ground in front of him.

He staggers past the men and into the tent, only looking up when he hears Esca's voice.

"Marcus, what's wrong?" Esca's face is taut with concern. "What did the tribune want? Is the news that poor?"

He half-sits, half-falls onto the pile of bedding. "I am being promoted," he says, dismally, hanging his head. "To Egypt."

Esca says nothing for a long, long time, and when Marcus dares to look up Esca is looking away from him, his expression closed off, revealing nothing.

"I should have expected this." Esca's voice is dull. "Too good for the likes of us, of course. Best centurion we've had. You'd be the only one so far who didn't leave on a pyre, you know?" The question is bitter, almost mocking.

"You could—" Marcus extends the offer anyway, a last hope— "you could come with me. Vestinus said I could bring my optio."

But Esca shakes his head. "I cannot abandon the men. I swore more oaths than Rome knows about. But if ordered, I would have to go." He eyes Marcus. The look is unreadable: is he urging him not to, or wishing he would?

"You would be miserable in Egypt, wouldn't you?"

It's not really a question, and Esca doesn't answer it. Instead, Esca brushes past him to the opening of the tent and turns back to look at him. "When are you leaving?"

_I'm not_ , Marcus wants to say. _I'm not leaving, I don't want to, I love you_ —

But the only words that come out when he speaks are "Tomorrow morning. With the couriers."

"Ah." Esca's face is carefully blank, but his voice shakes. Pain? Betrayal? Both? "It has been an honor serving with you, centurion."

Then Esca is gone, and Marcus puts his face in his hands and tries not to cry.

He cannot do this. He cannot.

Day turns to evening, and evening to night. Esca does not come back to the tent, but Marcus hears his voice outside and knows he is borrowing space in one of the other tents. And Marcus lies awake for hours and thinks, and thinks.

He imagines the century run by someone new, someone cold and uncaring, or hostile like Laetinianus. He would not know how to deal the men. The men would not trust him. And he would die, or the men would die. He would have built up their trust only to leave them.

And a new man would certainly not know how to deal with Esca; it hurts worst of all to think what would happen to Esca. Esca would be insubordinate, and beaten every day. He remembers Esca kneeling before him, covered in blood and bruises. He would be abandoning Esca to this.

And he would never see Esca again. For what reason would Esca have to be posted out of Britannia, or Marcus back to it? Oh, there might be letters at first, careful messages, solicitous inquiries as to health. The sort of thing one might send to a friend. But then the letters would dwindle, would dry up, and Marcus would be left with only memories.

He cannot do this. He will not. He loves Esca. He cannot say it, but he loves him. Loves him more than his career, more than anything. A posting is only a posting. He has his own happiness in his hands. He will not throw it away.

In the morning Marcus rises before dawn, before the rest of the men, to head alone to the main gate. Deciding that he might as well be as formal as he can, he puts his armor on, and it gleams a little in the morning sunlight. To look at him, he is the perfect Roman. But he is the perfect Roman who will turn down everything a Roman should want, and the contrast makes him smile. By the time he is at the gate, Vestinus is there as well, along with the couriers. One of the couriers is holding the reins of a saddled horse, an extra one. For Marcus.

He salutes Vestinus.

"Sir," he says, hoarsely, and no matter how much he swallows, his throat is still dry. "Respectfully, sir, I decline the promotion."

Vestinus' voice has a note of caution. "An offer like this doesn't come along every day, Aquila." The words he doesn't say are all too clear: if Marcus refuses this, there will be no more. This is it.

"I understand that, sir," Marcus says, and he will be brave. Esca would say this, bravely. Esca would have refused instantly. "I wish to remain here with the sixth century. I believe I have done well by them, and can be better here than anywhere else."

And Vestinus still stares at him as though he is mad—and well he should, for Marcus is at the very least madly in love—but then he nods slowly. "You do work well with them, Aquila."

"Thank you, sir."

He motions to the couriers and the gate-guards, and the riders depart.

"Well, then." Vestinus smiles. "Shouldn't you be getting back to your century, centurion?"

Marcus grins in relief and salutes. "Yes, sir!"

He lopes back to the century, as fast as he can without running. The men are just waking up, and a few seem surprised to see him—the rumors must have spread. But Esca is not one of them, and he stares around the tents in confusion until he sees movement in his own tent.

Marcus steps close, as quietly as he can, not wanting to disturb the tent's occupant.

It is Esca. He doesn't even look up. Esca is sitting on the pallet, amidst all of the bedding, clutching the blankets as if they are the only thing of Marcus he has left. And perhaps he thinks that. Marcus' heart twists in sympathy.

"Esca?" he calls out.

Esca's head snaps up and he stares at Marcus, wide-eyed in surprise and disbelief, like he had never thought to see Marcus again. And then, slowly, slowly, the look on his face transforms to a tentative joy. "Marcus?"

Marcus lets himself grin. He is smiling so widely his cheeks hurt; he does not think he will ever stop smiling, and it is the best he can ever remember feeling. "Yes?"

"I— I thought—" Esca is actually stammering now, Esca who is always calm and controlled. "I did not expect I would see you again in this life. I thought the riders had left this morning."

"Oh, they left," Marcus says, stepping closer. "But, as you see, I did not leave with them. I told the tribune I would rather remain with my century here."

Esca rises to his feet, and he is smiling back now. "Marcus Flavius Aquila," he pronounces, "you are an idiot. You have thrown away a chance at promotion and consigned yourself to years of the British frontier. You haven't even tasted winter yet, and you have trapped yourself here—"

"It's worth it," Marcus says, smiling, struggling to get the words out, because he has been brave today, and if he can just be brave a little longer, if he can just tell Esca— "However cold it is. I don't care. You're worth it, Esca."

"Oh, Marcus," Esca says, and they are inches apart, and he can feel Esca, warm and alive, next to him— "did you have to do all this to tell me you loved me? Could you not just _tell_ me? You must know I love you." He says it like it is easy, and perhaps his feelings are.

"I want to stay with you," Marcus says, "as long as you'll have me."

And then Esca is in his arms, or rather, he is in Esca's, with Esca wrapped about him, holding him close. "I'm here."

This is not what he expected to find in Britannia. He did not expect that he could ever feel this way about anyone, not any of his men, not a sharp, brilliant man quick with his words. And he did not think he would kneel for anyone ever in his life. But here he is, and he has done all these things, and are the words not the least of it? He can say it. He must.

Marcus breathes the words into Esca's ear. "I love you," he whispers, and once he says it he can say it again and again, in Latin, in British, in every language he knows. And Esca kisses him and kisses him and it is perfect.

**Works inspired by this one:**

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